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? LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. \\ 

W*9 i°«w|o J 

J UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. |f 



PRINCIPLES 



OF 



ELOCUTION: 



DESIGNED FOR THE USE OF 



TEACHERS, SCHOOLS, 



AND PRIVATE STUDENTS. 




BY MISS EMMA GARFIELD 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, 

1871. 



G 3 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 

MISS EMMA GARFIELD, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



\ 



PREFATORY. 



Let Nature be your Teacher.— Wordsworth. 

In the following pages it has been my endeavor to pre- 
sent only those principles which are founded upon a true 
conception of the cultivation of the human voice in a nat- 
ural manner. As the productions of the vegetable world 
reach the highest perfection when the spontaneous growth 
of nature is further stimulated by skillful cultivation, so the 
human voice attains the greatest development and power 
by careful and systematic training in accordance with her 
teachings. That master of the dramatic art, Shakspeare, 
says that "to read comes by nature," 

and emphatically enforces that the end to be attained in 
dramatic presentations "is, to hold, as 'twere, the miiTor 
up to nature." 

Many of the arbitrary rules that from time almost im- 
memorial, have appeared in successive works on Elocution, 
and which have only a theoretical value, are here discarded, 
and their places supplied by those which will, it is believed, 
lead the student to greater self-reliance, and a more just 
appreciation of the general principles uuderlying all good 
reading. 

There is, however, no system of rules that can be 
applied directly to the reading of every composition. 



IV PREFATORY. 



Thought, imagination and conception are illimitable : they 
acknowledge no boundaries : they are trammeled by no 
principles of exact application. The elocutionary rules 
here presented are deduced from a careful observation and 
study of the powers of the human voice, and are the re- 
sult of an endeavor to follow out the teachings of nature 

herself. 

It must necessarily occur, at times, that there is doubt 

in reference to the rendering of certain passages. In such 
cases the thought to be expressed, and the exact situation 
desired to be represented, are to be carefully considered, 
and the pupil should endeavor to read as though uttering 
the sentiment personally, under precisely similar circum- 
stances. 

I cannot here forbear expressing my thanks for the gen- 
erous appreciation with which my personal efforts as an 
instructor in Elocution have been met, and it is with the 
hope that this more extended presentation of the prin- 
ciples for guidance in the cultivation of the voice may 
receive a like kind reception, that I commit this work to the 

public. 

EMMA GARFIELD. 

Busti, Chautauqua Co., N. Y., 

September, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

PAGE. 

I. ARTICULATION 1 

Rule for Articulation 1 

Elementary Sounds 2 

Practical Exercises 4 

II. EMPHASIS 6 

Rule i , 6 

Rule ii 6 

Rule hi 7 

Rule iy 7 

Rule t 8 

Rule yi 8 

Rule yii 9 

III. QUALITIES OF VOICE 9 

i. Pure 10 

ii. Orotund 10 

in. Guttural 11 

iv. Aspirate 11 

y. Tremor 12 

Rule 13 

IV. RATE 13 

i. Slow... 13 

ii. Moderate 14 

in. Quick 14 

V. PITCH 15 

i. Low » 15 



VI CONTENTS. 



ii. Middle 16 

in. High 17 

VI. STRESS 17 

i. Radical 18 

ii. Median 18 

in. Teeminal 19 

iv. Compound 19 

v. Thoeough 20 

VII. EXPRESSION 20 

i. Haemony of Language 20 

ii. Gestuees 21 

SELECTIONS. 

PAGE. 

1. The Raven Edgae A. Poe. 2 

2. Soliloquy of the Dying Alchemist N. P. Willis. 27 

3. The King of Denmark's Ride Mes. Caeoline ISToeton. 30 

4. Death, the Final Conqueror .....A. G. Geeene. 32 

5. Quarrel Scene between Brutus and Cassius. . . Shakspeaee. 34 

6. How Does the Water Come Down at Lodore ?. . . . Southey. 37 

7. The Vagabonds J. T. Teowbeidge. 89 

8. Patrick O'Rourke and the Frogs Geoege W. Bungay. 42 

9. Sheridan's Ride T. B. Read. 44 

10. From the Dodge Club James De Mille. 46 

11. The Leper N. P.Willis. 50 

12. Bugle Song Alfeed Tennyson. 52 

13. The Closing Year Geoege D. Peentice. 53 

14. Claribel's Prayer Lynde Palmee. 25 

15. Creeds of the Bells Geoege W. Bungay. 56 

16. The Soldier's Reprieve ,.N. Y. Obseevee. 58 

17. Mother and Poet Mes. Beowning. 61 

18. May Days 64 

19. An Order for a Picture Alice Caeey. 66 

20. The Irishwoman's Letter 69 



CONTENTS. VII 



21. Darius Green and his Flying Machine. .J. T. Trowbridge. 70 

22. No Sect in Heaven Mrs. Cleveland. 77 

23. Courtship Under Difficulties Beadle's Dime Speaker. 80 

24. Will the New Year Come To-Night, Mamma? 

[Cora M. Eager. 84 

25. The Well of St. Keyne Robert Sottthey. 86 

26. Mary Maloney's Philosophy Philadelphia Bulletin. 87 

27. The Swan's Nest Mrs. Browning. 88 

28. Eveningat the Farm J. T. Trowbridge. 91 

29. Putting up Stoves 92 

30. Extract from King John Shakspeare. 93 

31. Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question 97 

32. The Famine H. W. Longfellow. 99 

33. The Ghost 103 

34. Shamus O'Brien Samuel Lover. 106 

35. Socrates Snooks Ill 

36. The Frenchman and the Flea Powder , 112 

37. Sam. Weller's Valentine Charles Dickens. 113 

38. Death of Marmion ....Walter Scott. 117 

39. The Soft No Alice Carey. 119 

40. An Idyl of the Period G. A. Baker. 120 

41. Fight between the Kearsarge and Alabama 122 

42. Modern Poetry 123 

43. Two Little Boots 125 

44. Dorothy's Dower 126 

45. Tubal Cain Charles Mackay. 127 

46. Hezekiah Bedott F. M. Whitcher. 129 

47. Tim Crane's Proposal F. M. Whitcher, (Adapted.) 131 

48. Our Guide in Genoa and Rome. Mark Twain, (Adapted.) 133 

49. Oration on the Crisis 136 

50. Jesus' Seat Miss F. Eastwood 138 

51. Scene from Handy Andy. . .Samuel Lover. 139 

52. The Polish Boy Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. 143 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Elocution is the art of reading and speaking in 
such a manner as to express the meaning of the author 
clearly, forcibly and effectively. 

To attain this art in its perfection, it is essential to give attention 
to 

Articulation, 
Emphasis, 
Qualities of Voice, 
Kate, 
Pitch, 
Stress, and 
Expression. 
Each will be treated in order. 

I. 

AKTICULATIION. 

Articulation is the art of utterance. 

In its ordinary sense, articulation is applied only to the utterance 
of the elementary sounds of the language. Those utterances, 
acquired by some, to represent sounds made by inanimate things, 
such as the ringing of a bell, the turning of a grind-stone, the creak- 
ing of a door, the riling of a saw, the blowing of the wind, are 
termed ventriloquism. The same term is also used to designate 
the imitation of the sounds made by the vocal organs of birds and 
beasts, produced by the human voice. 

KULE. 

Let your, articulation be distinct and deliberate. 

To attain distinctness of articulation, 
First, proper position, 
Second, proper breathing, 
Third, proper enunciation, are required. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



1. Position. Sit or stand erect, the shoulders well back and the 
head up. 

2. Breathing. The lungs should be trained to deep and full 
breathing. Not merely from the chest should breathing proceed, 
but the abdominal muscles should be brought into use. Deep 
breathing, with the air passing through the nostrils, and in such a 
way as to extend the muscles of the abdomen, should be persist- 
ently practiced. 

Enunciation. A clear, full and distinct enunciation depends 
much upon a proper understanding of the elementary sounds of 
the language. 

ELEMENTARY SOUNDS. 

The Elementary Sounds of the English lan- 
guage may be classified as 

1. Vowels. 

2. Sub- Vowels. 

3. Aspirates. 

Vowels are vocal sounds not interrupted by the 
organs of speech. 

Sub-Vowels are vocal sounds interrupted by the 
organs of speech. 

Aspirates are whispered sounds interrupted by the 

organs of speech. 

The vowel sounds are those most commonly mis-pronounced, 
each vowel letter representing two or more sounds. If the vowel 
sounds in a word are correctly given, the sub-vowel and aspirate 
sounds are seldom mis-pronounced. Careful attention should, how- 
ever, be given to their distinct utterance. In the following table 
of vowel sounds they are arranged in their phonetic order; that is, 
each short vowel is produced by shortening the long one opposite. 

VOWEL SOUNDS. 

LONG. SHORT. 

Name. Name. 

E long, as in eat. I short, as in it 

A long, " ale. E short, " ell. 

A flat, " arm. A short, " at. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCrTION. 



A broad, " all. O short, " on. 

O long, " old. U short, " up. 

slender, as in lose. U medial, as in put. 

DIPTHONGS. SHADE VOWELS. 

1 as in ice. A as in care. 
Oi as in oil. O as in whole. 
Ou as in out. A as in ask. 

U as in rule. E as in her. 

The twelve sounds given in the first table are those recognized 
as elementary vowel sounds by all orthoepists. 

The dipthongs are resolvable into elementary sounds as follows : 
i", as in ice, is equivalent to the sounds of a, as in arm, and i, as in 
it, uttered in quick succession. Oi. as in oil, is formed in a simi- 
lar manner of the sounds of a, as in all, and i, as in it. Ou, as in 
out, is composed, in the same way, of the sounds of o as in on, and 
u, as in put. U, as in rule, is composed in like manner of the 
sounds of i, as in it, and of u, as in put. In each of these dipthongs 
the first element is accented and glides into the second. 

Until recently the shade vowels have been classified as follows : 
A, as in care, the same as a, as in ale; o, as in whole, the same as 
o as in old; a, as in ask, the same as a, as in arm; e, as in her, the 
same as e, as in ell. The critical ear will, however, readily distin- 
guish a difference in these sounds when correctly given. 

SUB-VOWELS AND ASPIRATES. 

SUB-VOWELS. ASPIRATES. 

B as in boy. P as in pay. 

D as in do. T as in to. 

J as in joy. Ch as in chief. 

G as in go. K as in king. 

V as in vine. F as in for. 

Th as in then. Th as in thin. 

Z as in zeal. S as in see. 

Zh as in azure. Sh as ins hape. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



W as in we. Wh as in when. 

Y as in ye. 

L as in like. 

R as in ray. 

M as in me. 

N as in no. 

Ng as in sing. 

H as in he. 

All of the aspirate vowels, with the exception of h, differ from 
corresponding sub-vowels only in omitting the undertone, as exhib- 
ited in the preceding table. 

G has no sound of its own, but may represent the sound of s, 
k or z, as in cede, cut, sice. G generally has the sound of,; before 
e, i or y, as in gem, gibe, gyve. Zh is commonly used to denote the 
sound represented by z in azure on account of its relationship to 
that represented by sh, though the combination zh never occurs in 
English words. 

To obtain a correct pronunciation of words, frequent reference 
should be had to the Dictionaries of Webster or Worcester, and 
the study of the introduction to those works will give much 
valuable information in reference to the elements of the English 
language. 

PRACTICAL EXERCISES. 

E long, as in eat. 
Eh short, as in met. 
A long, as in ale. 
Ah flat, as in arm. 
Aw broad, as in all. 
Oo slender as in moon. 
Uh short, as in up. 
R same as word are. 
Drill on these sounds arranged as follows : 
E— Eh— A— Ah— Aw— Oo— Uh— R. 

Also as follows : 
R_Uh— Oo— Aw— Ah— A— Eh— E. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION 



And as follows : 

E— Eh— A— Ah— Aw— Oo— Uh— R. 
R_Uh— Oo— Aw— Ah— A— Eh— E. 

Let the sounds at first be given slowly and distinctly until per- 
fect accuracy is attained in their formation and utterance. Then 
let them be given with gradually increasing rapidity. Care should 
be taken that none of the sounds are slurred over, but that each 
one is pronounced with separate distinctness. 





Ek 



Give the sound E, then Ah, then Oo, extending or 
contracting the lips and jaw as much as possible in the 
formation of each sound. Gradually increase the ra- 
pidity of making the sounds until they can be given 
distinctly without making a pause between them. 

Give the sounds in a similar manner in the order 
e — oo — ah , oo — e— ah ; oo — ah — e ; ah — e — oo ; and 
ah — oo — e. 

Drill in a like manner on the other diagram, giving 
E the short sound, and dwelling on the consonant 
sound. 

Too much importance cannot be attached to thorough drill upon 
these exercises. Good articulation is the very foundation-stone of 
good reading, and without it the pupil can hope to make but little 
progress. A drill upon these exercises should precede every lesson. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



II. 

EMPHASIS. 

Emphasis is a peculiar stress of voice upon certain 
words to render them especially significant. 

Emphasis is the spontaneous expression of nature, impelled by 
the spirit and meaning of whatever is uttered. Without a just 
conception of the force and spirit of the sentiment, emphasis is 
stilted and labored. Keenness of perception, quickness of under- 
standing, and nicety of discrimination, are so many aids to a ready 
knowledge of the proper application of emphasis. The following 
rules are based upon nature, as near as may be, and will be found 
of much advantage in determining and properly rendering the 
emphatic portion of sentences. 

RULE I. 

In every sentence distinguish the more significant 
words by a natural, forcible and varied emphasis. 

Beading is sometimes termed talking from a book, for in talking 
the more significant words are naturally made more emphatic. 
Emphasis that is not natural is stiff and awkward. The force of 
emphasis should, of course, be varied to suit the sentiment of 
whatever is being uttered. 

EXAMPLES. 

For a man's house is his castle. — Coke. 
And is there care in Heaven f — Spencer. 
This is the short and the long of it. — Shakspeaee. 
When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war. — Lee. 
Some books are to be tasted, ^others to be swallowed, and some 
few to be chewed and digested. — Bacon. 

RULE II. 
Every new subject is emphatic. 

The reason for this rule is obvious. The introduction of a new 
subject requires that special attention should be directed to it by 
making it emphatic. 

EXAMPLES. 

Farewell happy fields, 
Where joy forever dwells : hail, horrors, hail !— Milton. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Beside, 'tis known be could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs squeak ; 

That Latin was no more difficile 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle. — Butler. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
***** * 

While all the stars that round her burn, 

And all the planets in their turn, 

Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. — Addison. 

The knell, the shroud, the mattock and the grave. — Young. 
Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, 
Tenets with books, and principles with times. — Pope. 

RULE III. 

Pause after the emphatic word. 

Emphasis being designed to direct the mind of the listener spec- 
ially to the idea expressed by the emphatic word, the attention is 
more closely fixed, and the sentiment made more significant by a 
pause iminediately after its utterance. 

EXAMPLES. 

Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs f 
Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a 
roar ? — Shakspeaee. 

The good he scorned 
Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, 
Not to return , or, if it did, in visits 
Like those of angels, short and far between. — Blair. 

I am not so far lost in study so as to forget that tcords are the 
daughters of earth, and things are the sons of men. — Johnson 
Adapted. 

RULE IY. 

Dwell on the emphatic words. 

In accordance with this rule, the vowel sound in an emphatic 
word is usually somewhat prolonged. Care should be taken that 
the sound is not prolonged in a way that will appear like affect- 
ation. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



EXAMPLES. 

Go call a coach, and let a coach be called, 

And let the man who calleth be the caller, 

And in his calling let him nothing call, 

But coach ! coach ! coach ! O for a coach, ye gods ! — 

Heney Caeey. 

" There's an old well there," said the sexton, " right underneath 
the belfry ; a deep, dark, echoing well. " — Dickens. 
One murder made a villain ; 
Millions, a hero. Princes were privileged 
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. 

Poeteus. 
RULE Y. 

Emphatic words usually require the falling inflection. 

Even direct questions, which ordinarly take the rising inflection, 
when repeated, or when they become an earnest appeal and the 
answer is anticipated, and are thus rendered emphatic, take the 
falling inflection. When words are made emphatic by contrast, 
they usually take opposite inflections. 
EXAMPLES. 
Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended ; 
Oome as the waves come, when 
Navies are stranded. — Scott. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave.— Ge ay. 

Beading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writ- 
ing dm exact man. — Bacon. 

EXAMPLES UNDER THE REMARKS. 

Do you reside in New York ? I beg your pardon, sir. Do you 
reside in Neva York ? 
Do I then, indeed, have y owe forgiveness t 
Does he deserve praise, or blame f 

RULE YI. 

Pass over the unemphatic words slowly. 

The fault of gliding over words in reading, in a rapid, flippant 
and hasty manner, is one so common and so glaring, that the occa- 
sion for the proper observance of this rule is readily apparent. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



The importance of attention to this matter is referred to by Walk- 
er, in his Art of Reading, as follows : 

" Learn to read slow — all other graces, 
Will follow in their proper places. " 

RULE VII. 
Whatever has been expressed, or is understood, is not 
emphatic. 

In the following examples, the unemphatic words illustrating the 
rule, are designated by italics. 

EXAMPLES. 

Of all the days that's in the week, 

I dearly love but one day, 

And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and a Monday. — Henry Carey. 

Let those love now who never lov'd before, 

Let those who always loved now love the more. — Parnell. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lotting herd winds slowly o'er the lea. — Gray. 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 

Some boundless contiguity of shade, 

Where rumors of oppression and deceit 

Might never reach me more. — Cowper adapted. 

III. 

QUALITIES OF VOICE. 

Qualities of VorcE denote the kind used. 
They may be classified as 

1. Pure. 

2. Orotund. 

3. Guttural. 

4. Aspirate. 

5. Tremor. 

In the Pure and the Orotund all the breath used is vocalized, 
while in the Guttural, Aspirate and Tremor it is more or less ob- 
structed. 

3 



10 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

I.— PURE. 

Pure quality is used in light and agreeable utter- 
ances, simple narratives, and expressions of moderate 
joy or grief. 

Pure quality of voice is the basis of utterance. It is the most 
used, and great care should be taken to acquire it perfectly. 

EXAMPLES. 

You hear that boy laughing ? You think he's all fun ^ 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done ; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, 
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all. 

O. W. Holmes. 

For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone ; the flowers 
appear on the face of the earth • the time of the singing of birds 
is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. 

Bible. 

At last Malibran came ; and the child sat with his glance riveted 
upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the great lady, all 
blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, 
would really siDg his little song? Breathless he waited ; — the band, 
the whole band, struck up a little plaintive melody. He knew it, 
and clapped his hands for joy. And O, how she sang it ! It was 
so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing; — many a bright eye 
dimmed with tears, and nought could be heard but the touching 
words of the little song — oh ! so touching ! 

Anonymous. 

II— OROTUND. 

The Orotund is used in bold declamations, ani- 
mated appeals, and in expressing emotions of sublim- 
ity ana grandeur. 

The Orotund is the fullest and most complete tone that the vo- 
cal organs are capable of expressing. The Pure and the Orotund 
are comparative qualities, and the former may be developed into 
the latter by increasing the volume of sound and bringing into more 
complete action the vocal organs. 

A valuable drill is to practice giving the long vowel sounds, first 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 11 

in the Pure, next in the Orotund, and then pass alternately from 
one tone to the other. 

EXAMPLES. 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 
With all its hopes of future years 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

Longfellow. 

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a wreck behind. 

Shakspeaee. 
III.— GUTTURAL. 
The Guttural tone is used to express strong emo- 
tions of scorn, revenge, hatred and contempt, and vio- 
lent denunciation. 

In the guttural tone the voice is formed mostly by the vocal 
organs of the throat. 

EXAMPLES. 

Unmanner'd dog ! stand there where 1 command ! 
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, 
Or, by Saint Paul ! I'll strike thee to the earth, 
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. 

Thou worm ! thou viper ! to thy native earth 
Return! Away ! Thou art too base for man 
To tread upon. Thou scum ! thou reptile ! 

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle ; 
I am no traitor's uncle. 

IY.— ASPIRATE. 

The Aspirate quality is a forcible whisper, and 
is used to express the emotions of fear, horror, dis- 
pair and remorse. 



12 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

EXAMPLES. 

Avaunt ! and quit niy sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! 

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold : 

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 

Which thou dost glare with! Hence ! horrible shadow, 

Unreal mockery, hence ! 

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, " The foe, they come! they comer 

Byron. 

How ill the taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here ? 

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 

That shapes this monstrous apparition. 

It comes upon me ! Art thou anything ? 

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, 

That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare ? 

Speak to me what thou art. 

Shakspeake. 

V.— TREMOR. 

The Tremor is a tremulous tone of voice used in 
expressing strong emotions of pity, tenderness, grief, 
joy and hope. 

EXAMPLES. 

O my soul's joy! 

If after every tempest comes such calms, 

May the winds blow till they have wakened death. 

Shakspeare. 

O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom ! would God I 
had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son ! 

Bible. 

If your waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year, 

It is the last New Year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low F the mould and think no more of me. 

Tennyson. 

Different qualities of voice are generally combined in every se- 
lection of any length. The intensity of the expression, also va- 
ries with the intensity of the emotions to be represented. In 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 13 

these respects the perception, taste and discrimination of the pupil 
must guide. As a general rule, however, the following should 
be observed. 

RULE. 

Suit the sound to the sense. 

IV. 

RATE. 

Rate has reference to the slowness or rapidity of 
utterance. It may be classified as 

1. Slow. 

2. Moderate. 

3. Quick. 

A closer classification might make two additional divisions — 
very slow and very quick. The distinction between them and 
slow and quick, is not, however, sufficiently marked to render the 
division of practical importance. 

The rapidity or the slowness with which a given sentence is to be 
uttered depends upon the sentiments and emotions to be expressed. 
In determining the rate to be used, the meaning of the author 
must be carefully considered, and the movement of the voice 
guided by the sentiment and emotion to which utterance is intend- 
ed to be given. 

I.— SLOW. 

Slow rate is used in expressing sentiments and 

emotions that are grand, deep, vast, powerful, or 

solemn. 

The slow rate is frequently accompanied by the monotone, and 
when properly used is very effective. Care should, however, be 
exercised, lest the pupil use it so frequently that it lose its singnifi- 
cance and force. 

EXAMPLES. 

O Thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; 
Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 

Deezhavin. 



14 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

Wolfe. 
High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearls and gold, 
Satan exalted sat. 

II.— MODERATE. 
Moderate rate is used in expressing emotions of 
an ordinary character, and in descriptions and narra- 
tions that are not specially animated. 
EXAMPLES. 

Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
He who can call to-day his own ; 
He who, secure within, can say, 
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day. 

Deyden. 
And he gave it for his opinion, that whoever could make two 
ears of corn, or two blades of grass, to grow upon a spot of 
ground where only one grew before, would deserve better of man- 
kind, and do more essential service to his country, than the whole 

race of politicians put together. 

Swift. 
III.— QUICK. 

Quick rate is used to express emotions of sudden 

joy, great fear, haste, anger and animated description. 

EXAMPLE. 

Up drawbridge, grooms! — what, warder, ho! 
Let the portcullis fall. 

Scott. 

Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you 
pass that point ! Up with the helm ! Now turn ! Pull hard ! 
Quick ! quick ! quick ! pull for your lives ! pull till the blood 
starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand out like whip cords 
upon your brow ! Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail ! Ah ! 
ah ! it is too late ! Shrieking, howling, blaspheming, over they 
go. Gough. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 15 



And now he feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands; 
Now round him throng the fathers 

To press his gory hands ; 
And now with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the \River-Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

Macattlay. 

V. 

PITCH. 

Pitch denotes the degree of elevation of the voice. 
It may be classified as 

1. Low. 

2. Middle. 

3. High. 

The different degrees of pitch that may be employed depend 
upon the pupil's compass of voice. The classification of Low. 
Middle and High is but the use of relative terms, the standard 
vaiying with different individuals. 

Upon the proper variation of the pitch depends much of the 
pleasure of listening to the reader or speaker, and of the ease and 
effectiveness of vocal delivery. The monotonous and sing-song 
tone so often heard from public speakers results from a want of 
attention to the variation of the pitch. 

I.— LOW. 

Low pitch is used in expressing sentiments of awe, 

sublimity and reverence. 

The Low Pitch is usually accompanied by the Orotund quality 
of voice and Slow rate of utterance, and when properly em- 
ployed is very effective. 

EXAMPLES. 

I am thy father's spirit ; 
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night, 
And for the day confined to fast in fires, 



16 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature, 
Are burned and purged away. 

Shakspeake. 

With grave 
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 
A pillar of state ; deep on his front engraven 
Deliberation sat, and public care ; 
And princely counsel in his face yet shone, 
Majestic though in ruin. 

Milton. 

The flag of the old Revolution 
Swear firmly to serve and uphold, 
That no treasonous breath of pollution, 
Shall tarnish one star of its fold. 

Swear ! 
And hark the deep voices replying, 
From the graves where your fathers are lying, 

"Swear, oh, swear!" 

Read. 

II.— MIDDLE. 

Middle Pitch is used in expressing moderate 
emotions, and in ordinary discourse and conversation. 

The Middle Pitch is the one that should be employed in reading 
or speaking, except where strong or peculiar emotions or senti- 
ments are to be expressed. It affords the widest range of the 
voice above and below, and being used in ordinary conversation, 
the vocal organs brought into exercise are stronger, and the per- 
son therefore reads or speaks with less fatigue. The Pure quality 
of voice and the Moderate Rate usually accompany the Middle 
Pitch. 

EXAMPLES. 

, Let the soldier be abroad if he will, he can do nothing in this 
age. There is another personage, a personage less imposing in the 
eyes of some, perhaps insignificant. The schoolmaster is abroad, 
and I trust to him, armed with his primer, against the soldier in 
full military array. 

Brougham. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 17 

Thus the birch canoe was builded 
In the valley by the river, 
In the bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest's life was in it. 
All its mystery and its magic, 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch's supple sinews ; 
And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Longfellow. 

III.— HIGH. 

High Pitch is used in commanding and shouting 
to those at a distance, and in expressing joyous and 
strong emotional feelings. 

EXAMPLES. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the Valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

TE2TCYSON. 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah for horse and man ! 

Read. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're a-fire ! 
And before you, see 
Who have done it ! From the vale 
On they come ! And will ye quail ? 

PlEKPOtfT. 

VI. 

STRESS. 

Stress denotes the variations of force applied to the 
vowel sounds in emphatic words. 



18 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

* 

Stress may he classified as 

1. Radical. 

2. Median. 

3. Terminal. 

4. Compound. 

5. Thorough. 

There are properly no words in the"* English language without 
one or more vowel sounds. The consonant sounds cluster around 
the vowels, and are in 0113 sense subordinate to them. The kind 
of force, therefore, applied to the vowel sound determines the 
character of emphasis which the word receives. 

I.— RADICAL. 

R.YDrcAL Stress is an explosive force upon the 
opening of the vowel sound, and is used in expressing 
lively and startling emotions, as commanding, anger? 
surprise. It ma.y be illustrated thus > 

The force of radical stress varies with the intensity of the emo- 
tion to be expressed. At times the explosive force gradually 
diminishes, and at others it very abruptly closes. The radical 
stress is heard in conversation frequently in expressions of sudden 
surp.ise, whether of joy or of pain. 

EXAMPLES. 

Out, out with the sword and the rifle 
In defence of your homes and your fires. 

Read. 

The combat deepens. On ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave. 

Campbell. 

Revenge! about !— seek!— burn!— lire!— kill!— slay ! let not a 
traitor live ! 

Shakspeaee. 

II.— MEDIAN. 
Median Stress consists in swelling the middle of 
the vowel sound, and is employed in expressing grand 
and sublime ideas. It may be illustrated thus 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 19 

When the median stress is used the movement of the voice is 
slow and measured, and the vowel sound is dwelt upon to an un- 
usual length. 

EXAMPLES. 

O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
O death ! where is thy sting ? 

Pope. 
These are thy glorious works, parent of good, 
Almighty ! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair, thyself how wondrous then ! 
O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! 
whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlasting light ? 

Ossian. 
III.— TERMINAL. 
Terminal Stress is an explosive force upon the 
closing of the vowel sound, and is employed in ex- 
pressions of doggedoess, contempt, determination, 
and scorn. It may be illustrated thus <C^ 

Gone to be married ! Gone to swear a peace ! 
False blood to false blood joined ! Gone to be friends I 
Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these provinces f 
The Terminal Stress is the opposite of the Radical. The for- 
mer is used mostly where the feelings or emotions are suppressed, 
or under control ; the latter where they find expression through 
some sudden impulse or overwrought feeling. 

EXAMPLES. 

Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen. 

Shakspeaee. 
Where's the coward, that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? 

Scott. 
IV.— COMPOUND. 

Compound Stress is an explosive force upon both 
the opening and the closing of the vowel sound, and 



20 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

is employed mostly in expressing emotions of surprise 
mingled with doubt or contempt. It may be repre- 
sented thus ^ 

EXAMPLES. 

Dead ! Patrick O'Connor ! Oh Gocl, it's some ither, 
Shot dead ! Shure 'tis a week scarce gone by. 

Anon. 
Dost thou come here to whine ? To outface me, with leaping 
in her grave ? 

Shakspeake. 
Banished from Rome ! What's banished but set free ? 

V.— THOROUGH. 

Thorough Stkess is an explosive force throughout 
the vowel sound, and is used in giving emphatic com- 
mands, or in expressing boastful defiance. It may be 
illustrated thus = 

EXAMPLES. 

Hang out our banners on the outward walls ; 

The cry is still, " They come." Our castle's strength 

Will laugh a siege to scorn. 

What man dare, I dare ; 
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger ; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble. 

Shakspeaee. 

VII. 

EXPRESSION. 

Expression has reference to the modulation of th e 
voice and the movement of the body in reading or 
speaking. 

I.— HARMONY OF LANGUAGE. 

In the preceding pages the various modulations of the voice have 
been considered; yet there are certain modes of expression that do 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 21 

not admit of distinct classification. The genius of our language 
admits of expression, very frequently, by the character of the 
words used. Thus Milton, in describing the opening of the gates 
to the infernal regions, employs language that grates upon the ear 
with harshness, as follows : 

u Ona sudden, open fly, 
With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound, 
Th' imperial doors ; and on their hinges grate 
Harsh thunder. " 

In contrast, is the pleasing, soft sound of the words used in de- 
scribing the opening of Heaven's doors, as follows : 

"Heaven opened wide 
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
On golden hinges turning. " 

In reading the two passages given, the voice will naturally adapt 
itself to the sentiment which the construction of the language in- 
dicates. 

In the following the voice will naturally be at a slow rate from 
the very wording of the passage : 

" With many a weary step and many a groan, 
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone." 
But in the following the words will naturally be pronounced with 
a quick, percussive force : 

" Arms on armor clashing, bray'd 
Horrible discord ; and the maddening wheels 
Of brazen chariots raged." 

II.— GESTURES. 

In giving expression by means of gestures, it is impossible to 
lay down specific rules that will be of practical value. One writer 
justly observes, "that in making gestures no room is afforded for 
the indulgence of fancy. They are all significant, and have their 
meaning as invariably settled by the laws of nature as words and 
tones have by conventional usage ; and to know how to make and 
use them properly, the safest and best way is to refer constant- 
ly to social lif e, and take for models the best examples of unre- 
strained, sensible and refined conversation." Bishop Fenelon, in 
some of his writings, says : "A speaker's body must betray 
action, when there is movement in his words ; and his body must 
remain in repose when what he utters is of a level, simple, unim- 



22 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

passioned character. Nothing seems to me so shocking and ab- 
surd as the sight of a man lashing himself to a fury in the utter- 
ance of tame things. The more he sweats, the more he freezes 
my very blood. " 

The following general hints are all that it is deemed of practi- 
cal utility to give : 

In expressing admiration, wonder, joy, the head may be thrown 
back, the brows elevated, the lips open and the eyes raised. 

In expressing anger and hatred, the brows may be knit/ the lips 
compressed and the eyes glaring. 

In expressing shame and humility, the head may be inclined for- 
ward, and the eyes lookiDg downward. 

The extended hand with the palm upward, is used in appeal and 
entreaty. In repelling, dreading, and warding off, the open hand 
with the palm outward is used, either extended or raised, and the 
body recoiling. The hand tightly closed and the arm thrown out 
with energy indicate defiance and threatening. 

The following selection forms an appropriate close to this sub- 
ject : 

'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,— 

'Tis modulation that must charm the ear. 

When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan, 

And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone, 

The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes 

Can only make the yawning hearers doze. 

That voice all modes of passion can express 

Which marks the proper word with proper stress ; 

But none emphatic can the reader call, 

Who lays an equal emphasis on all. 

Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll 

Slow and deliberate as the parting toll; 

Point every stop, mark every pause so strong, 

Their words like stage-processions stalk along. 

All affectation but creates disgust, 

And even in speaking we may seem too just. 

In vain for them the pleasing measure flows, 

Whose recitation runs it all to prose ; 

Repeating what the poet sets not down, 

The verb disjointing from the friendly noun, 

While pause, and break, and repetition join 

To make a discord in each tuneful line. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 23 

Some placid natures fill the alloted scene 
With lifeless drone, insipid and serene ; 
While others thunder every couplet o'er, 
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar. 
More nature oft and finer strokes are shown 
In the low whisper than tempestuous tone : 
And EUmlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze 
More powerful terror to the mind conveys. 
Than he, who swollen with big impetuous rage, 
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage. 
He who in earnest studies o'er his part 
Will find true nature cling about his heart. 
The modes of grief are not included all 
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl ; 
A single look more marks the internal woe 
Than all the windings of the lengthened ! 
Up to the face the quick sensation flies, 
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes ; 
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair, 
And all the passions, all the soul is there. 



SELECTIONS. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — 
While nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door ; 
" 'Tis some visitor,'' I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door — 
Only this, and nothing more. " 

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate, dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly 1 wished tne morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating : 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door ; 
This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said L "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
But + he fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard yon" — here I opened wide the 
door — 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 



SELECTIONS. 25 



And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

" Lenore !" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 

" Lenore I" — 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
" Surely," said I—' 'surely that is something at my window lattice, 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. 
Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed 

he; 
But, with niein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — 
Perched and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure 

no craven, 
Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly 

shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore ! " 
Quoth the Raven : " Nevermore. " 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door. 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, 
With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered— 
Till I scarcely more than muttered : " Other friends have flown 

before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said : " Nevermore." 
4 



26 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Startled at the stillness brokeD by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless,' said I, " what utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore— 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
Of ' ' Never — nevermore. " 

But, the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 

door; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of 

yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, bvt no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 

censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
" Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he 

hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !" 
Quoth the Raven : ' ' Nevermore. " 

"Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil!— prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there— is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore !" 
Quoth the Raven : ' ' Nevermore. " 

"Prophet! "said I, "thing of evil— prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us— by that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, 



SELECTIONS. 27 



It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" 
Quoth the Raven: " Nevermore. " 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!'' I shrieked, 

upstarting — 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ' — quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 

my door!" 

Quoth the Raven : ' ' Nevermore. " 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door : 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the 

floor ; 
And my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the floor, 

Shall be lifted— never more ! 

Edgar A. Poe. 



SOLILOQUY OF THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 

The night wind with a desolate moan swept by ; 
And the old shutters of the turret swung, 
Creaking upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So T dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 

The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy, and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips, 
Muttered a curse on death ! 



28 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

The silent room, 
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and, when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
And with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself: — 

I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through, 

With this my mortal eye ; 
I felt, — O God ! it seemeth even now 
This can not be the death clew on my brow ! 

And yet it is, — I feel, 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ; 
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 

And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand, 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

And this is death ! But why 
Feel I this wild recoil ! It cannot be 
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! 

Would it not leap to fly 
Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call ? 
I fear, — I fear that this poor life is all ! 

Yet thus to pass away ! — 
To live but for a hope that mocks at last, — 
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 

To waste the light of day, 
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, 
All that we have and are,— for this,— for naught ! 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win. 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know something here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 



SELECTIONS. 29 



Vain, — vain! — my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And those hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And I am freezing, — burning, — 
Dying ! O God ! if I might only live ! 
My phial —Ha! it thrills me, — I revive. 

Ay, were not man to die 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here, — 

Could he but train his eye, — 
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour, — 
Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 

Earth has no mineral strange, — 
Th' illimitable air no hidden wings, — 
Water no quality in covert springs, — 

And fire no power to change, — 
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 

Oh, but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky, — 
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye, — 

To hurl the lightning back, — 
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls, — 
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon- walls, — 

And more, much more, — for now 
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move, — 
To nurse and purify this human love, — 

To clear the god-like brow 
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down 
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one. — 

This were, indeed, to feel 
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream, — 
To live, — O God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death Aha ! I reel, — 

Dim, — dim, — I faint, — darkness comes o'er my eye,- 
Cover me ! save me ! God of Heaven ! I die ! 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 



30 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
Of his death struggles. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild ; 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

The storm was raging still. The shutter swung 
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, 
And all wirhout went on, — as aye it will, 
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 

The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashioned them, and the small rod, 
Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements at its master's will. 

And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down, — an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. O, how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked, — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest ! 

N. P. TVlLLIS. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 

That the love of his heart lay suffering, 

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring. 

(Oh ride as if you were flying !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown- jewels of ruby and pearl; 

And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 



SELECTIONS. 31 



Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 
Each one mounted a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank, 
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst ; 
But, ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone ; 
The little fair page now follows alone. 

For strength and for courage trying, 
The king looked back at that faithful child, 
Wan was the face that answering smiled. 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, 
Then he dropped, and only the king rode in 

Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn : 

(Silence!) 
No answer came, but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride; 
For dead in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay, 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying. 

The panting steed with a drooping crest 

Stood weary ; 
The king returned from the chamber of rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast, 

And that dumb companion eyeing, 
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" Oh steed, that every nerve didst strain — 
Dear steed ! our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 

Mrs. Caroline Norton. 



32 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

DEATH, THE FINAL CONQUEROR; OR THE BARON'S 
LAST BANQUEJT. 

O'er a low couch the setting sun 

Had thrown its latest ray, 
Where, in his last strong agony, 

A daying warrior lay, — 
The stern old Baron Rucliger, 

Whose frame had ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil 

Its iron strength had spent. 

"They come around me here, and say, 

My clays of life are o'er, — 
That I shall mount my noble steed, 

And lead my band no more : 
They come, and to my beard they dare 

To tell me now that I, 
Their own leige lord and master born, 

That I, — ha ! ha ! — must die. 

"And what is death? I've dared him oft 

Before the warrior's spear, — 
Think ye he's entered at my gate, — 

Has come to seek me here ? 
I've met him, faced him, scorned him, 

When the fight was raging hot, — 
I'll try his might, — I'll brave his power, — 

Defy, and fear him not. 

" Ho ! sound the tocsin from the tower, 

And fire the culverin, — 
Bid each retainer arm with speed, — 

Call every vassal in ; 
Up with my banner on the wall, — 

The banquet board prepare, — 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, 

And bring my armor there !" 

A hundred hands were busy then, — 
The banquet forth was spread, — 



SELECTIONS. 33 



And rang the heavy oaken floor 

With many a martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery 

Along the vaulted wall. 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear. 

O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 

The mailed retainers poured 
Or through the portal's frowning arch, 

And thronged around the board. 
While at its head, within his dark, 

Carved oaken chair of state, 
Armed cap-a-pie. stern Rucliger, 

With girded falchion, sate. 

•'Fill every beaker up, my men, 

Pour forth the cheering wine ; 
There's life and strength in every drop, — 

Thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true ? 

Mine eyes are waxing dim ; — 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 

Each goblet to the brim. 

•• Ye're there, but yet I see you not. 

Draw forth each trusty sword. — 
And let me hear your faithful steel 

Clash once aroimd my board ! 
I hear it faintly : — (°°) Louder yet ! — 

What clogs my heavy breath ? 
Up all, — and shout for Rudiger: 

4 Defiance unto Death /' " 

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, 

And rose a deafening ciy, 
That made the torches flare around, 

And shook the flags on high : — 
" Ho ! cravens ! do ye fear him ? 

Slaves ! traitors ! have ye flown ? 
Ho ! cowards have ye left me 

To meet him here alone ? 



34 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



" But I defy him: — let him come!" 

Down rang the massy cup, 
While, from its sheath, the ready blade 

Came flashing half-way up ; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes 

Scarce trembling on his head, 
There, in his dark, carved oaken chair, 

Old Rudiger sat, — dead! 

a. a. geeese. 



QUARREL SCENE BETWEEN" BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 

Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein nrv letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 

Brutus. You wronged you i self to write in such a case. 

Gas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offense should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 

You know that yon are B.utus. that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Gas. Chastisement! 

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember. 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
Whit villain touchad his body thit did stab 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers — shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 



SELECTIONS. 35 



I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than Buch a Roman. 

< r a8. Brutus, bay not me ; 

I'll not endure it : you forget yourself 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier — I, 
Older in practice, abler thau yourself 
To make conditions. 

Brit. Goto; you're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more ; I shall forget myself ; 
Have mind upon your health : tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is't possible f 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. Oh ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this? ay. more : Fret till your proud heart breaks ; 
Go show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ! By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my inirth, yea for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so : make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well : for mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better : 
Did I say better ? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him? 

Cas. I durst not ? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? 



36 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold which you denied me — 
For I can raise no money by vile means ; 
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me ; was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts — 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : he was but a fool 

That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart ; 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius ; 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My sipirt from mine eyes ! There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 



SELECTIONS. 37 



Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 

If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart ; 

Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know, 

When thou didst hate him worse, thou lovedst him better 

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger : 

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
Oh Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again ! 

Gas. Hath Cassius lived 

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Gas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too, 

Gas. Oh Brutus ! 

Bru. What's the matter? 

Gas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When that rash humor, which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, henceforth, 

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 

Shakspeaee. 



HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT 
LODORE ? 

Here it comes sparkling, 

And there it lies darkling ; 

Here smoking and frothing, 

Its tumult and wrath in 
It hastens along, conflicting and strong, 

Now striking and raging, 

As if a war waging, 
Its caverns and rocks among. 



38 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Rising and leaping, 
Sinking and creeping, 
Swelling and flinging, 
Showering and springing, 
Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking, 
Twining and twisting 

Around and around, — 
Collecting, disjecting, 

With endless rebound ; 
Smiting and fighting, 
A sight to delight in ; 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening with its sound. 

Receding and speeding, 
And shocking and rocking, 
And darting and parting, 
And threading and spreading, 
And whizzing and hissing, 
And dripping and skipping, 
And whitening and brightening, 
And quivering and shivering, 
And hitting and splitting, 
And shining and twining, 
And rattling and battling, 
And shaking and quaking, 
And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And flowing and growing, 
And running and stunning, 
And hurrying and skurrying, 
And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And dinning and spinning, 
And foaming and roaming, 
And dropping and hopping, 
And working and jerking, 
And heaving and cleaving, 
And thundering and floundering. 

And falling and crawling and sprawling, 



SELECTIONS. 39 



And driving and riving and striving, 

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
And Bounding and bounding and rounding, 
And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 
Dividing and gliding and sliding, 
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 
And clattering and battering and shattering, 

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, 
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gashing, 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, 
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ; 

And so never ending, but always descending, 
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, 
All at once and all o'er with a mighty uproar ; 
And this the way the water comes down at Lodore. 

SOUTHEY. 



THE VAGABONDS. 

We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp. 
Jump for the gentleman — mind your eye ! 

Over the table — look out for the lamp ! 
The rogue is growing a little old : 

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, 
And slept out doors when nights were cold, 

And ate, and drank, and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you : 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, 

The paw he holds up there has been frozen) 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings. 



40 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



No, thank you, sir, I never drink. 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aren't we Roger ? see him wink. 

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too — see him nod his head; 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ; 
He understands every word that's said, 

And he knows good milk from water and chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, -• 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin, 

And this old coat with its empty pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living, 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master. 
No, sir ! see him wag his tail and grin — 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water- 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow, but no matter. 

We'll have some music if you are willing, 

And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir) 
Shall march a little. Start you villain ! 

Paws up ! eyes front ! salute your officer ! 
'Bout face ! attention ! take your rifle ! 

(Some dogs have arms you see. ) Now hold 
Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle. 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the Rebel shakes 

When he stands up to hear his sentence ; 
Now tell how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, that's five — he's mighty knowing ; 

The night's before us, fill the glasses ; 
Quick, sir ! I'm ill, my brain is going ; 

Some brandy, thank you ; there, it passes. 



SELECTIONS. 41 



Why not ref orm ? that's easily said. 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform, 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out Heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love ; but I took to drink ; 

The same old story, you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features — 

You needn't laugh, sir, I was not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures ; 

I was one of your handsome men — 

If you had seen her, so fair, so young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ; 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd, 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with riddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She's married since, a parson's wife, 

'Twas better for her that we should part ; 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and broken heart. 
I have seen her ? Once ! I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road : a carriage stopped, 
But little she dreamed as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin her fingers dropped. 

You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry, 

It makes me wild to think of the change. 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me, 

'Twas well she died before. Do you know, 
If the happy spirits in Heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

6 



42 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, 

No doubt, remembering things that were : 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober respectable cur. 

I'm better now, that glass was warming. 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals or drink, 

The sooner the better for Roger and me. 

J. T. Tkowbridge. 



PATRICK O'ROURKE AND THE FROGS. 

Saint Patrick did a vast deal of good in his day : he not only 
drove the snakes out of Ireland, but he also drove away the frogs ; 
at least I judge so from the fact that Patrick O'Rourke was un- 
familiar with the voices of those noisy hyclropaths. Pat had 
been visiting the house of a friend, and he had, unfortunately, 
imbibed more whisky than ordinay mortals can absorb with safety 
to thei persons. On his home return the road was too narrow, 
and he pei formed wonderful feats in his endeavors to maintain 
the centre of g avity. Now he seemed to exert his best efforts to 
walk on both sides of the road at the same time ; then he would 
fall, and feel upward for the ground ; then he would slowly pick 
himself up, and the ground would rise and hit him square in the 
face. By the time he reached the meadow-lands, located about 
half way between his home and the shanty of his friend, he was 
somewhat sobered by the ups and downs he had experienced on 
the way. 

Hearing strange voices, he stopped suddenly to ascertain, if 
possible, the purport of their language. Judge his astonishment 
when he heard his own name distinctly called — "Patrick O'Rourke 
—Patrick O'Rourke." 

" Faith, that's my name, sure." 



SELECTIONS. 43 



" Patrick O'Rourke — Patrick — O'Rourke — Rourke — Rourke. " 

" What do ye want o' the likes o' me?" he inquired. 

" When did ye come over — come over — come — over ?" 

"It is jist tree months ago to the minute; and a bad time we 
had, sure, for we were all say-sick, and the passage lasted six 
long wakes." 

" What will ye do— do— do ? What will ye do— do— do ?" 

" I have nothing to do at all at all, but then I can do anything 5 
I can dig, I can tind mason, and I can hould office if I can git it." 

"You are drunk — you are drunk — drunk — drunk — drunk — 
drunk." 

" By my sowl, that's a lie." 

"You are drunk — dead drunk — drunk — drunk." 

" Repate that same, if ye dare, and I will take me shillaly to ye. " 

"You are drunk — dead drunk — drunk — drunk." 

"Jist come out here, now, and stip on the tail o' me coat, like 
a man," exclaimed Pat, in high dudgeon, pulling off his coat and 
trailing it upon the ground. 

"Strike him — strike him — strike — strike — strike." 

" Come on wicl ye ! I'm a broth of a boy ; come on." 

"Knock him down — down — down." 

" I will take any one in the crowd ; and, if 'Mike Mulligan was 
here, he wud take all of yees at onct." 

' ' Kill him— kill him— kill him. " 

"Och, murther!" sure ye wud not be afther murtherin' me; I 
was not oncivil to ye. Go back to Pate Dogan's wid me now, 
and I will trate ivery one o'yees." 

" We don't drink rum — rum — rum." 

" And are ye all Father Matthew men ?" 

"We are all cold-water men — water men." 

"Take me advice, now, and put a little whasky in the wather, 
darlings ; it will kape the cowld out whin yees git wet, and so it 
will." 

i ' Moderation — moderation — moderation. " 

"Yis, that's the talk. But ye are a set o' fut-pads and high- 
waymen, hidin' behind the rocks and the traas. Whin I onct git 
to W T atertown I will sind Father Fairbanks after ye, and he will 
chuck ye into the pond, as he did that thaf e who stole the public 
money, and he will howld ye there until ye confess, or he will 
take yees to the perleese. " 

" Come on, boys — chase him — chase him." 



44 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

"Faith and I won't run, but I will jist walk right along; for 
if any o' me frinds should find me here in sich company, at this 
hour o' the night, they wud think I was thryin' for to stale some- 
thin.' Take me advice, boys, and go home, for it's goin' for to 
rain, and ye will git wet to the skin if ye kape sich late hours." 

"Catch him — catch him — catch him." 

"Sure yu'd betther not, for I haven't got a cint wid me, or I'd 
lave it in yer jackets. What's the use o' stalin' all a man has 
whin he has jist nothin' at all at all. Bad luck to ye for both- 
erin me so." 

About this time the frog-concert was in full tune, and the 
hoarse chorus so alarmed Pat that he took to his heels, for he was 
now sober enough to run. 

Geokge W. Bungay. 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

Up from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wilder still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

With Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down ; 

And there through the flash of the morning fight, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight — 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell — but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 



SELECTIONS. 45 



Still sprung from these swift hoofs, thundering South, 

The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster: 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 

Even' nerve of the charger was strained to full play. 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire, 

But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 

What was done— what to do— a glance told him both, 

And striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzahs, 

And the wave of retreat checked its couise there because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray : 

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 

He seemed to the whole great army to say, 

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester down to save the day !" 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high 
Under the dome of the L'nion sky, — 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
11 Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester — twenty miles away ! " 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



46 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

FROM THE DODGE CLUB ; OR, ITALY IN MDCCCLIX. 

La Gica did not speak the best English in the world ; yet that 
could not account for all the singular remarks which she made. 
Still less could it account for the tender interest of her manner. 
She had remarkably bright eyes. Why wandered those eyes so 
often to his, and why did they beam with such devotion — beaming 
for a moment only to fall in sweet innocent confusion? La 
Gica had the most fascinating manners, yet they were often per- 
plexing to the Senator's soul. 

" The Countess," he thought, " is a most remarkable fine wo- 
man ; but she does use her eyes uncommon, and I do wish she 
wouldn't be quite so demonstrative. " 

At last the Senator came to this conclusion : La Gica was des- 
perately in love with him. 

She appeared to be a widow. Now, if the poor Gica was hope- 
lessly in love, it must be stopped at once. For he was a married 
man, and his good lady still lived, with a very large family, most 
of the members of which had grown up. 

La Gica ought to know this. She ought indeed. But let the 
knowledge be given delicately, not abruptly. 

On the following evening they walked on the balcony of La 
Gica's noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming. 

The conversation of a fascinating woman does not look so well 
when reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, 
her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of 
her expression, or the deep tenderness of her well-modulated 
voice? Who indeed? 

"Does ze scene please you, my Senator?" 

"Yery much, indeed." 

"Youar countrymen haf tol me zey would like to stay here 
alio way." 

" It is a beautiful place." 

" Did you aiver see any thin moaire loafely ?" And the Count- 
ess looked full in his face. 

"Never," said the Senator earnestly. The next instant he 
blushed. He had been betrayed into a compliment. 

The Countess sighed. 

" Helas ! my Senator, that it is not pairmitted to moartals to 
sociate as zey would laike." 



SELECTIONS. 47 



" ' Your Senator,'" thought the gentleman thus addressed ; "how 
fond, how tender — poor thing ! poor thing !" 

" I wish Italy was nearer to the States," said he. 

" How I adamiar youar style of mind, so cliff erente from ze Ital- 
iana. You are so stong — so nobile. Yet would I laike to see moar 
of ze poetic in you." 

" I always loved poetry, marm," said the Senator desperately. 

"Ah — good — nais — eccelente. I am plees at zat," cried the 
Countess, with much animation. "You would loaf it more eef 
you knew Italiano. Your langua ees not sufficiente musicale for 
poatry." 

" It is not so soft a language as the J-talian." 

"Ah — no — not so soft. Very well. And what theenka you of 
ze Italiano ?" 

" The sweetest language I ever heard in all my born days." 

" Ah, now — you hev not heard much of ze Italiano, my Sen- 
ator. " 

"I have heard you speak often," said the Senator, naively. 

" Ah, you compliment ! I sot you was aboove flattera." 

And the Countess playfully tapped his arm with her little fan. 

"What Ingelis poet do you loafe best ?" 

"Poet ? English poet ?" said the Senator with some surprise. " 
"Oh — why, marm, I think Watts is about the best of the lot." 

"Watt? Was he a poet? I did not know zat. He who in- 
vented the steam-injaine ? And yet if he was a poet it is naturale 
zat you loafe him best. " 

" Steam-engine ? Oh no ! This one was a minister." 

"A me- neestaire ? Ah! an abbe? I know him not. Yet I 
haf read mos of all youar poets." 

" He made up hymns, marm, and psalms — for instance : 'Watt's 
Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.' " 

"Songs? Spirituelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works 
of Watt, which was ze favorit poet of my senator." 

"A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet Watts," 
said the Senator firmly. " He is the best known by far of all our 
poets." 

"What? better zan Shakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much 
surprass me." 

"Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why, his 
poetry is known by heart, through all England and America." 

"Merciful Heaven ! what you tell me ! ees eet possibl ! An yet 



48 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

he is not known here efen by name. It would please me mooch, 
my Senator, to haire you make one quotatione. Know you Watt ? 
Tell me some words of his which I may remembaire. " 

"I have a shocking bad memory." 

' ' Bad memora ! Oh, but you remember somethin, zis most 
beautiful charm nait — you haf a nobile soul — you must be aff ecta 
by beauty — by ze ideal. Make for me one quotatione." 

And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked 
up imploringly in his face. 

The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was 
a beautiful woman, by act and look showing her tender interest in 
him. Perplexing — but very flattering after all. So he replied : 

" You will not let me refuse you any thing." 

"Aha! you are verra willin to refuse. It is difficulty for me 
to excitare youar regards. You are fill with the grands ideas. 
But come — will you spik for me som from your f avorit Watt ?" 

" Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly, and 
he hesitated. 

" A— I do wish it so much !" 

"Ehem!" 

"Begin," said the Countess. "Behold me. I listen. I hear 
everysin, and will remember it f orava. " 

The only thing that the Senator could think of was the verse 
which had been running in his head for the last few days, its 
measured rhymth keeping time with every occupation : 

" ' My willing soul would stay — '" 

" Stop one moment," said the Countess. " I weesh to learn it 
from you;" and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly 
dropped her eyes. 

" Ma williua sol wooda sta — ' " 

" 'In such a frame as this," prompted the Senator. 

"'Een socha a framas zees. Wait — 'Ma willna sol wooda sta 
in socha framas zees. " Ah, appropriat ! but could I hope zat you 
were true to zose lines my senator? Well?" 

" 'And sit and sing herself away,' " said the Senator, in a fal- 
tering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of 
committing himself by such uncommonly strong language. 

" ' Ansit ansin hassif awai,'" repeated the Countess, her face 
lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression. 

The Senator paused. 

"I — ehem! I forget. 



SELECTIONS. 49 



' ' Forget ? Impossible ! " 

"I do really."' 

" Ah now! Forget? I see by your face— you desave. Say 
on." 

The Countess again gently touched his arm with both her little 
hands, and held it as though she would clasp it. 

" Have you fear? Ah, cruel !" 

The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly 
finished : 

" ' To everlastin bliss ' — there !" 

" 'To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all : 'Ma willna 
sol wooda sta in soocha frame as zees, ansit ansin hassaf awai to 
affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right ?" 

"Yes," said the Senator meekly. 

"I knew you were a poetic sola," said the Countess, confiding- 
ly. "You air honesto — true — you cannot desave. When you 
spik I can beliv you. Ah my Senator ! an you can spik zis poetry ! 
— at soch a toime ! I never knew bef oare zat you so impassione ! 
an you air so artaf ul ! You breeng ze confersazione to beauty — 
to poatry — to ze poet Watt — so you may spik verses most impas- 
sione ! Ah ! what do you mean ? Santissma madre ! how I wish 
you spik Italiano." 

The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deep- 
ened his perplexity. 

"How that poor thing does love me!" sighed the Senator. 
" Law bless it ! she can't help it — can't help it nohow. She is a 
goner ; and what can I do ? I'll have to leave Florence. " 

The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood 
waiting for him to break the silence. How could he ? He had 
been uttering words which sounded to her like love ; and she — " a 
widow ! a widow ! wretched man that I am ! " 

There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awkward the 
Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say? What 
bvsiness had he to go and quote poetry to widows? What an old 
fool he must be ! But the Countess was very far from feeling 
awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude she looked up, her face 
expressing the tenderest solicitude. 

" What ails my Senator ?" 

" Why the fact is, marm — I feel sad — at leaving Florence. I 
must go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. 
The children are down with the measles." 

7 



50 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Oh, base f a-brication ! Oh, false Senator ! There wasn't a word 
of truth in that last remark. You spoke so because you wished 
La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was 
very badly done. 

James De Mille. 



THE LEPER. 

"Room for the leper ! room i" — And, as he came, 

The cry passed on — " Room for the leper ! room !" 

— Sunrise was slanting on the city gates, 

Rosy and beautiful ; and from the hills 

The early-risen poor were coming in, 

Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 

Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 

Of moving v heels, and multitudes astir, 

And all that in a city murmur swells, — 

Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, 

Aching with night's dull silence, — or the sick, 

Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase 

The death-like images of the dark away. 

— " Room for the leper !" And aside they stood— 

Matron and child, and pitiless manhood, — all 

Who met him on his way, — and let him pass. 

And onward through the open gate he came, 

A leper with th< j ashes on his brow, 

Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 

A covering, — stepping painfully and slow, 

And with a difficult utterance, like one 

Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, 

Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!" 

'Twas now the first 
Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, 
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path, 
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young, 
And eoiinently beautiful; and life 
Mantled in elegant fulness on his lip, 
And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mein 
There was a gracious pride, that every eye 



SELECTIONS. 5 1 



Followed with benisons ; — and this was he ! 

******* 

And he went forth — alone ! Not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of his heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him. Yea, — he went his way, 
Sick, and heart broken, and alone, — to die ! 
For God had cursed the leper ! 

It was noon, 
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched 
The loathsome water to his fevered lips, 
Praying that he might be so blest, — to die! 
— Footsteps approached : and with no strength to flee 
He drew the covering closer on his lip. 
Crying, " Unclean! Unclean!" and in the folds 
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er 
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name. 
" Helon!" — The voice was like the master-tone 
Of a rich instrument, — most strangely sweet ; 
And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
And, for a moment, beat beneath the hot 
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill ! 
Helon ! arise ! " — and he forgot his curse, 
And rose and stood before Him. 

Love and awe 
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye. 
As he beheld the stranger. — He was not 
In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow 
The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; — 
No followers at His back, — nor in His hand 
Buckler, or sword, or spear : — yet in His inein 
Command sat throned serene ; and if he smiled, 
A kingly condescension graced His lips, 
A lion would have crouched to in his lair. 
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn, 



52 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

His stature modelled with a perfect grace ; 

His countenance the impress of a God, 

Touched with the opening innocence of a child ; 

His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 

In the serenest noon : His hair unshorn 

Fell to His shoulders^; and His curling beard 

The fullness of perfected manhood bore. 

— He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 

As if His heart were moved, and stooping down, 

He took a little water in His hand, 

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" 

And lo ! the scales fell from him ; and his blood 

Coursed with delicious coolness through his reins, 

And his dry palms grew moist ; and on his brow 

The dewy softness of an infant's stole ; 

His leprosy was cleansed ; and he fell down 

Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped Him. 

N. P. Willis. 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls, 

And snowy summits old in stoiy ; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle blow ; set the wild echoes flying ; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ; 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elf -land faintly blowing ! 
Blow ; let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on field, on hill, on river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ; set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



SELECTIONS. 53 



THE CLOSING YEAR. 

1. Tis midnight's holy hour, — and silence now 
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 

The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the knell 

Of the departed year. No funeral train 

Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, 

With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest 

Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 

As by a mourner's sigh ; and, on yon cloud 

That floats so still and placidly through heaven. 

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 

And Winter with its aged locks,— and breathe, 

In mournful cadences that come abroad, 

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 

A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 

Gone from the Earth forever, 

2. 'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 

And holy visions that have passed away, 

And left no shadow of their loveliness 

On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 

The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love. 

And bending mournfully above the pale, 

Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 

O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

3. The year 

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, 
It waved its sceptre over the beautiful, 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 



54 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 

Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the the song 

And reckless shout resounded. 

4. It passed o'er 

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear and shield, 
Flashed in the light of mid-day ; and the strength 
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
The crushed and molderin^ skeleton. It came 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

5. Eemorseless Time ! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 

His iron heart to pity ? On, still on, 

He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 

The condor of the Ancles, that can soar 

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 

The fury of the northern hurricane, 

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 

Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 

To rest upon his mountain crag; — but Time 

Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness ; 

And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 

His rushing pinions. 

6. Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink 

Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
Startling the nations, — and the very stars, 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 



SELECTIONS. 



And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
To darkle in the trackless void, — yet Time, 
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
Upon the fearf ul ruin he has wrought. 

George D. Prentice. 



CLARIBEL'S PRAYER. 

The day, with cold, gray feet, clung shivering to the hills, 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell ; 

But waking Blue Eyes smiled, " 'Tis ever as God wills ; 
He knoweth best ; and be it rain or shine, 'tis well. 
Praise God!" cried always little Claribel. 

Then sank she on her knees, with eager, lifted hands ; 
Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to tell : 
" O Father smile, and save this fairest of all lands, 
And make hevfi^ee, whatever hearts rebel. 
Amen I Praise God ! " cried little Claribel. 

" And, Father," — still arose another pleading prayer, — 
" O, save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell : 
Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid, streaming hair, 
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well. 

" But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done, 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of Freedom swell, 
Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so well. 
Amen ! Praise God !" cried little Claribel. 

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night, 
The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell. 
u O shout !" the herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light ; 
" 'Tis victory! O, what glorious news to tell !" 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. 

"But, pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight? 

And in the fiery rain ? O, fought he brave and well ? 
"Dear child," the herald cried, "there was no braver sight 



56 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell." 
" Praise God !" cried trembliDg little Claribel. 

" And rides he now with victor's plumes of red, 

While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ?" 
The herald dropped a tear. " Dear child," he softly said," 
"Thy brother evermore with canquerors shall dwell." 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel. 

" With victors wearing crowns and bearing palms," he said, 
A snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell. 

44 O, sweetest herald, say my brother lives " she plead. 

" Dear child, he walk with angals, who in strength excel, 
Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel." 

The oold, gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, 
While bitter mourning on the night wind rose and fell. 
" O, child," — the herald wept, — "Tis as the dear Lord wills : 
Heknoweth best, and, be it life or death, 'tis well." 
" Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel. 

Lynde Palmer. 



CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 

Each one its creed in music tells, 

In tones that float upon the air, 

As soft as song, and pure as prayer ; 

And I will put in simple rhyme 

The language of the golden chime. 

My happy heart with rapture swells 

Responsive to the bells — sweet bells. 

"In deeds of love excel — excel," 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 

'■' This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
Its forms and sacred rites revere, 
Come worship here — come worship here ; 
Its rituals and faith excel," 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

"Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well," 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 



SELECTIONS. 57 



" No progress made hy mortal man 
Can change the just, eternal plan. 
With God there can be nothing new ; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true. 
While all is well — is well — is well," 
Pealed out the good old Dutch Church bell. 

"Oh swell, ye purifying waters, swell," 

In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
" Though faith alone in Christ can save ; 

Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 

To show the world unfaltering faith 

In what the sacred Scripture saith. 

Oh swell, ye rising waters, swell," 

Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 

"Not faith alone, but works as as well, 
Must test the soul, " said a soft bell ; 

" Come here, and cast aside your load, 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ, where hope'^began : 
Do well — do well — do well — do well," 
Pealed forth the Unitarian bell. 

"Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell," 

In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 
"Life is a boon to mortals given, 

To fit the soul for bliss in heaven. 

Do not invoke the avenging rod ; 

Come here, and learn the way to God. 

Say to the world farewell! farewell !" 

Pealed out the Presbyterian bell. 

"To all thejtruth we tell— we Jell," 

Shouted in ecstacies a bell ; 
"Come all ye weary wanderers, see! 

Our Lord has made salvation free. 

Repent ! believe ! have faith ! and then 

Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen. 

Salvation's free we tell — we tell," 

Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

Geokge W. Bungay. 

8 



58 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



THE SOLDIER'S REPREIVE. 

"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, 
that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, — 
no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little 
minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed 
over duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only 
fell asleep one little second; — he was so young, and not strong, 
that boy of mine ! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! 
and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing 
sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,— only 
twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now ?" 

" We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, 
soothingly. 

"Yes, yes ; let us hope : God is very merciful ! 

" fc I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a 
man, to think I never used this great right arm,' — and he held it 
out so proudly before me, — ' for my country, when it needed it ! 
Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow ! ' " 

" 'Go, then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God 
has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these 
last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted 
them. 

" Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not !" 

Blossom sat near them, listening, with blanched cheek. She 
had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no 
one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the 
household cares. Now, she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen 
door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It 
is from him," was all she said. 

It was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took the let- 
ter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling 
fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a 
child. 

The minister opened it, and read as follows : — 

Dear Father : — When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. 
At first it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought about it so 
much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind 
me, nor blind me ; but that I may meet my death like a man. I 
thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my 
country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously ; 



SELECTIONS. 59 



but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it,— to die for 
neglect of duty ! O, father, I wonder the very thought does not 
kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you 
all about it ; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I 
can not now. 

" You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look 
after her boy ; and when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. 
He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and 
the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, 
on our march. Toward night we went in on a double-quick, and 
though the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was 
tired too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now 
and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out 
wiien we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be 
sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. I 
could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; 
but I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." 

"God be thanked !" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I 
knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." 

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, — given to 
me by circumstances, — t time to write to you, ' our good Colonel 
says. Forgive him, Father, he only does his duty ; he would glad- 
ly save me if he could ; and do not lay my death up against Jem- 
mie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg 
and entreat them to let him die in my stead. 

" I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, 
father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when 
the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be 
now. God help me ; it is very hard to bear ! Good-by, father ! 
God seems near and dear to me : not at all as if He wished me to 
perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken- 
hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Savior 
in a better — better life." 

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said 
solemnly, — "Amen. " 

"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming 
home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back 
stoop, waiting for me, — but I shall never, never come! God bless 
you all ! Forgive your poor Bennie." 

Late that night the door of the " back stoop" opened softly, 
and a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to 



60 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turn- 
ing her head neither to the right or the left, looking only now and 
then to Heaven, and holding her hands, as if in prayer. Two 
hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching 
the coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he reached 
down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face 
that was upturned toward the dim lantern that he held in his hand. 
A few questions and ready answers told him all • and no father 
could have cared more tenderly for his only child, than he for our 
little Blossom. 

She was on her way to W ashington, to ask President Lincoln 
for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note 
to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought 
Bennie's letter with her ; no good, kind heart like the President's 
could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached 
New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. 
Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's 
life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the 
Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. 

The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, 
of overlooking and signing important papers, when without one 
word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, 
with downcast eyes, and folded hands stood before him. 

"Well, my child," he said in his pleasant, cheerful tones, 
" what do you want so bright and early in the morning?" 

" Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom. 

" Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" 

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping 
at his post." 

" Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before 
him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see child, it 
was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have 
been lost for his culpable negligence." 

"So my father said," replied Blossom gravely, "but poor Ben- 
nie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of 
two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too 
tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired 
too." 

"What is this you say, child? come here ; I do not understand," 






SELECTIONS. 61 



and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a 
justification of an offense. 

Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, 
and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he 
seemed, and he was President of the United States too ! A dim 
thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's 
mind ; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and 
handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. 

He read it carefully ; then taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty 
lines, and rang his bell. 

Blossom heard this order given : '• Send this dispatch at once." 

The President then turned to the girl and said : "Go home, my 
child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his coun- 
try's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that 
Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far to precious to be lost. Go 
back, or — wait until to-morrow ; Bennie will need a change after 
he has so bravely faced death , he shall go with you." 

" God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that 
God heard and registered the request ? 

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the 
White House with his little sister. He was called into the Presi- 
dent's private room, and a strap fastened " upon the shoulder." 
Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick com- 
rade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves 
well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way 
to their Gr een Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill 
Depot to welcome them back ; and, as farmer Owen's hand grasp- 
ed that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was 
heard to say feverently, " The Loed be peaised !" 

N. Y. Obseevee. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead ! both my boys ! when you sit at the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said ? 



62 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 
The east sea, and the west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead ! 

What's art for a woman ? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat ; 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them. It stings there : I made them, indeed, 
Speak plain the word country, — I taught them, no doubt, 

That a country's a thing men should die for at need, 
I prated of liberty, rights and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed. O, my beautiful eyes ! 

I exulted ! Nay let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 

When one sits quite alone ! then one weeps, then one kneels 
— God ! how the house feels ! 

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, of camp life and glory, and how 

They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin; Ancona was free, 
And some one came out of the cheers in the street, 

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
My Guido was dead ! I fell clown at his feet 
While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it ! friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy yet remained 

To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand. I was not to faint. 

One loved me for two ; would be with me ere long: 
And " Viva Italia" he died for, our saint, 
"Who forbids our complaint." 



SELECTIONS. 63 



My Nanni would add he " was safe, and aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest 

It was Guido himself who knew what I could bear 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed 
To live on for the rest." 

On which without pause up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : 
Shot, Tell his mother. Ah! Ah! "his," " their" mother, not 
"mine." 
No voice says my mother again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot ? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, 
They drop earth s affections, conceive not of woe ? 

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that love and that sorrow that reconciles so 
The Above and Below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'st thro' the dark 

To the face of thy mother ! consider I pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 

Whose sons not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, 
And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead ! but that's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 

'Twere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall; 
And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah ! ah ! ah ! when Gseta's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death, crashing souls out of men, 

When the guns of Cavalli with final retort, 
Have cut the game short. 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for its'green, white and red, 

When you have a country from mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
And 1 have my dead. 



64 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



What then? Do not mock me. Ah! ring your bells low, 
And burn your lights faintly. My country is there, 

Above the star pricked by the last p^ak of snow \ 
My Italy's there, with my brave civic pair, 
*, To disfranchise despair. 

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west, 
And one of them shot in the east by the sea. 

Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none look at me. 

Mrs. Browning. 



MAY DAYS. 

In sweet May time, so long ago, 

I stood by the big wheel spinning tow, 

Buzz, buzz, so very slow ; 

Dark, rough logs from the ancient trees, 

Fire-place wide for the children's glees. 

Above the smoky boards and beams, 

Down through the crevice poured golden gleams, 

Till the wheel dust glimmered like diamond dreams ; 

Mother busy with housenolcl care, 

Baby playing with upturned chairs, 

Old clock telling how fast time wears. 

These within. Out under the sky 
Flecked mists were sailing, birds flitting by 
Joyous children playing " I spy." 
Up from the earth curled leaves were coming, 
Bees in the morning sunshine humming, 
Aw 7 ay in the woods the partridge drumming. 

O, how I longed to burst away 
From my dull task to the outer day ; 
But we were poor and I must stay. 
So buzz ! buzzl 'twas very slow, 
Drawing threads from the shining tow, 
When the heart was dancing so. 



SELECTIONS. 65 



Then hope went spinning a brighter thread, 
On, on, through'life's long lane it led, 
A path my feet should one day tread. 
So pleasant thoughts would time beguile, 
Till rny mother said, with beaming smile, 
"My child may rest, I will reel awhile." 

Rest ! 'twas the rest that childhood takes, 
Off over fences and fragrant brakes, 
To the wilds, where the earliest woodland flings 
Spring of the year, and life's sweet spring, 
Words are poor for the thoughts ye bring. 

But ye come together to me no more, 
Your twin steps rest on the field of yore, 
Ye are mine on yonder immortal shore. 
'Twas hard to leave those bright May days, 
The mossy path and leafy maze 
For common work, and humdrum ways. 

But my steps were turned, I was up the lane, 

Back to the buzzing wheel again. 

My yarn had finished the ten knot skein ; 

And my gentle mother stroked my head, 
" Your yarn is very nice," she said, 
"It will make a beautiful tablespread. " 

" Y r ou are my good girl to work so well," 
Great thoughts my childish heart would swell, 
'Till the happy tears like rain drops fell. 
I would toil for her, I would gather lore, 
From many books a mighty store, 
And pay her kindness o'er and o'er. 

She should work no more at wheel or loom, 
My earnings should give her a cosy room, 
Bright and warm for the winter's gloom, 
A soft warm chair for her weary hours, 
Books and music, pictures, flowers. 

So the sweet dream ran, as the wheel buzzed on, 
'Till the golden gleams of light were gone, 
And the chilling rain came dripping down, 
Ah ! my heart has it e'er been so, 

9 



66 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Cold clouds shading life's sunniest glow, 
Warm Lopes drowned in the cold wave's flow. 

In the same low room my mother pressed 
Each child to her softly heaving breast, 
And closed her eyes and went to rest. 
The old walls crumbled long ago, 
Hushed the big wheel's buzzing slow, 
Worn to shreds is the shining tow. 

Yet with the bursting leaves and flowers, 
The gushing songs and pearly showers, 
Life brightens as in childhood's hours, 
And hope this golden morn in May 
Spins golden threads that float away 
To a heavenly home that is bright for aye. 



AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

O, good painter, tell me true, 
Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things you never saw ? 

Aye ? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
The picture must not be overbright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light, 

Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. 

Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 

Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
When the wind can hardly find breathing room 

Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
Biting shorter the short green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around — 
Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! 

These and the little house where I was born, 
Low and little and black and old, 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 



SELECTIONS. 67 



Heads and shoulders clear outside, 

And fair young faces all ablush ; 
Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way, 

Out of a wilding, way-side bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 
Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul and the angel's face 

That are beaming on me all the while ! 

I need not speak these foolish words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 

She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir ; one like me, — 

The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 

At ten years old he went to sea, — 
God knoweth if he be living now, — 
He sailed in the good ship " Commodore," — 

Nobody ever crossed her track 

To bring us news, and she never came back. 
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck : 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, 
And his face was toward me all the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 

The time we stood at our mother's knee ; 
That beauteous head if it did go down, 

Carried sunshine into the sea ! 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afraid, 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 






Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — 
Loitering till after the low little light 
Of the candles shone through the open door, 

And, over the hay-stack's pointed top, 

All of a tremble, and ready to drop 
The first half -hour, the great yellow star 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, 
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, — 

Dead at the top, — just one branch full 

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
From which it tenderly shook the dew 

Over our head, when we came to play 

In its handbreath of shadow, day after day, 
Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie. 
If you can, pray have the grace 
To put it solely in the face 

Of the urchin that is likest me ; 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 
But that's no matter, — paint it so ; 

The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 

Looking not on the nest-full of eggs, 

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 

But straight through our faces, down to our lies, 

And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, 
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though 

A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know, 
That you oa the canvass are to repeat 



SELECTIONS. 69 



Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 

Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — 

The mother, — the lads, with their birds, at her knee, 

But, oh that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 

Alice Cary. 



THE IRISHWOMAN'S LETTER. 

And sure, I was tould to come in til yer honer, 
To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat, 

He's gone for a soger is Mishter O'Conner, 
Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 

And what 'ill ye tell him ? shure it must be aisy 
For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, 

Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy 
(The baby yer honor), is better again. 

For when he wint off so sick was the crayther, 
She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face ; 

And when I'd be cryin he'd look at me wild like, 
And ax "would I wish for the counthry's disgrace. 

So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin, 
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy ; 

And its often I drame of the big drums a batin, 
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy. 

Tell him to sind us a bit of his money. 

For the rint and the do ether's bill, due in a wake, 
An, shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes, honey, 

I' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake. 

I'm over much thrifling — I'll not give ye trouble, 
I'll find some one willin — oh what can it be ? 

What's that in the newspaper folded up double ? 
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me. 

Dead ! Patrick O'Connor ? oh God its some ither, 
Shot dead ! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by, 

An the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother, 
It has hasn't had time yet yer honor to dhry. 



70 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Dead ! dead ! O God, am I crazy ? 

Shure its brakin my heart ye are telling me so, 
An what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy ? 

what can I do ? where can I go ? 

The room is so dark — I'm not seein yer honor, 

1 think I'll go home — and a gob hard and dry, 
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner, 

But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye. 



DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE. 

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, 
Wise or otherwise, good or bad, 
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump 
With flapping arms from stake or stump, 

Or spreading the tail 

Of his coat for a sail, 
Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 

And wonder why 

He couldn't fly, 
And flap and flutter and wish and try, — 
If ever you knew a country dunce 
Who didn't try that as often as once, 
All I can say is, that's a sign 
He never would do for a hero of mine. 

An aspiring genius was D. Green : 

The son of a farmer, — age fourteen • 

His body was long and lank and lean, — 

Just right for flying, as will be seen ; 

He had two eyes as bright as a bean, 

And a freckled nose that grew between, 

A little awry, — for I must mention 

That he had riveted his attention 

Upon his wonderful invention, 

Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, 

And working his face as he worked the wings, 

And with every turn of gimlet and screw 

Turning and screwing his mouth round too, 

Till his nose seemed bent 

To catch the scent, 



SELECTIONS. 71 



Around some corner, of new baked pies, 
And his wrinkled cheeks and squinting eyes 
Grew puckered into a queer grimace, 
That made him look very droll in the face, 
And also very wise. 

And wise he must have been, to do more 
Than ever a genius did before, 
Excepting Daedalus of yore, 
And his son Icarus, who wore 

Upon their backs 

Those wings of wax 
He had read of in the old almanacks. 
Darius was clearly of the opinion, 
That the air is also man's dominion, 

And that, with paddle, or fin, or pinion, 

We soon or late 

Shall navigate 
The azure as now we sail the sea. 
The thing looks simple enough to me ; 

And if you doubt it, 
Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 

" The birds can fly, 

An' why can't I ? 

Must we give in," 

Says he with a grin, 

" That the bluebird an' phcebe 

Are smarter'n we be ? 
Jest fold our hands an' see the s waller 
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler ? 
Does the little chatterin', sassy wren, 
No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men ? 

Jest show me that ? 

Ur prove't the bat 
Hez got more brains than's in my hat, 
An' I'll back down, an' not till then ?" 

He argued further : " Nor I can't see 
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, 
Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ; — 

Ain't my business 

Important's his'n is ? 



72 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

That Icarus 

Made a perty muss, — 
Him an' his daddy Daedalus. 
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax 
Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. 

I'll make mine o' luther, 

Ur suthin' ur other." 
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned : 
" But I ain't goin' to show my hand 
To nummies that never can understand 
The fust idee that's big an' grand. " 
So he kept his secret from all the rest, 
Safely buttoned within his vest ; 
And in the loft above the shed 
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread, 
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, 
And all such things as geniuses use ; — 
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows ! 
A charcoal pot and a pair of bellows ; 
Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; 
A carriage-cover for tail and wings ; 
A piece of a harness ; and straps and strings ; 

And a big strong box, 

In which he locks 
These and a hundred other things. 

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke 

And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk 

Around the corner to see him work. — 

Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 

Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, 

And boring the holes with a comical quirk 

Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. 

But vainly they mounted each other's backs, 

And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks ; 

With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks 

He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks ; 

And a dipper of water, which one would think 

He had brought up into the loft to drink 

When he chanced to be dry, 

Stood always nigh, 

For Darius was sly ! 



SELECTIONS. 73 



And whenever at work he happened to spy 
At chink or crevice a blinking eye, 
He let the dipper of water fly. 

So day after day 
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, 

Till at last 'twas done, — 
The greatest invention under the sun ! 
" An' now," says Darius, " hooray fur some fun !" 

Twas the Fourth of July, 

And the weather was dry, 
And not a cloud was on all the sky, 
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, 

Half mist, half air, 
Like foam on the ocean went floating by, — 
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen 
For a nice little trip in a flying machine. 
Thought cunning Darius : " Now I sha'nt go 
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. 
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough ! 
An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off, 

I'll have full swing 

Fur to try the thing 
An' practice a little on the wing. " 

" Ain't goin' to see the celebration ?" 
Says brother Nate. " No ; botheration ! 
I've got sich a cold — a toothache — I — 
My gracious ! — feel's though I should fly !" 

SaidJotham, " 'Sho ! 

Guess ye better go. " 

But Darius said, " No ! 
Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 
'Long 'bout noon, ef I get red 
O' this jumpin' thumpin' pain 'n my head." 
For all the while to himself he said : — 

" I tell ye what! 
I'll fly a few times around the lot, 
To see how 't seems, then soon 's I've got 
The hang o' the thing, ez likely 's not, 

I'll astonish the nation, 

'An all creation, 

10 



74 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

By flyin' over the celebration ! 

Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; 

I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull ; 

I'll dance on the chimbleys ; I'll stand on the steeple; 

I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people ! 

I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow ; 

An' I'll say to the gawpin'|fools here below, 

' What world's this 'ere 

That I've come near ?' 
Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap fm the moon ; 
An I'll try a race 'ith their oV balloon ! " 

He crept from his bed ; 
And seeing the others were gone, he said, 
"I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." 

And away he sped, 
To open the wonderful box in the shed. 

His brothers had walked but a little way, 

When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, 

"What is the feller up to, hey?" 

" Don'o', — the's sothin' ur other to pay, 

Or he would'nt 'a 1 stayed to hum to-day." 

Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye ! 

He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, 

Ef he hed'nt got some machine to try." 

Then Sol, the little one, spoke : 

" Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn, 

An' pay him for telling us that yarn ! " 

" Agreed !" Through the orchard they creep back, 

Along by the fences, behind the stack. 

And one by one, through a hole in the wall. 

In under the dusty barn they crawl, 

Dressed in their Sunday garments all ; 

And a very astonishing sight was that, 

When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat 

Came up through the floor like an ancient rat 

And there they hid ; 

And Keuben slid 
The fastenings back, and the door undid. 

"Keep dark!" said he, 
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see." 



SELECTIONS. 75 



As knights of old put on their mail, — 

From head to foot 

An iron suit, 
Iron jacket and iron boot, 
Iron breeches, and on the head 
No hat, but an iron pot instead, 

And under the chin the bail, 
(I believe they called the thing a helm,) 

Then sallied forth to overwhelm 
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm, — 

So this modern knight, 

Prepared for flight, 
Put on his wings and strapped them tight, — 
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light, — 
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip, — 
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip ! 
And a helm had he, but that he wore, 
Not on his head like those of yore, 

But more like the helm of a ship. 

" Hush !" Reuben said, 

" He's up in the shed ! 
He's opened the winder, — I see his head! 

He stretches it out, 

An' pokes it about, 
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, 

An' nobody near; — 
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here ! 
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! 
Stop lafnn' Solomon! Burke, keep still! 
He's a climbin' out now — Of all the things ! 
What's he got on ? I van, it's wings ! 
An' that 't other thing ? I vum, it's a tail ! 
An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail ! 
Steppin' careful, he travels the length 
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. 
Now he stretches his wings like a monstrous bat ; 
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, 
Fur to see 'f the' 's any one pass in' by ; 
But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. 
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, 



76 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



To see — The dragon ! he's goin' to fly ! 
Away he goes ! Jimminy ! what a jump ! 

Flop — flop — an' plump 

To the ground with a thump ! 
Flutt'rin an' flound'rin,' all 'n a lump !" 

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear 
Heels over head, to his proper sphere, — 
Heels over head, and head over heels, 
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, — 
So fell Darius. Upon his crown, 
In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, 
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, 
Broken braces and broken springs, 

Broken tail and broken wings, 
Shooting stars, and various things, — 
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, 
And much that wan't so nice by half. 

Away with a bellow fled the calf, 

And what was that ? Did the gosling laugh ? 

'Tis a merry roar 

From the old barn-door 
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, 
"Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?" 

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 

Darius just turned and looked that way, 

As he staunched his sorrowful nose with his cuff, 

" Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 

He said ; " but the' ain't sich a awful sight 

O' fun in 't when ye come to light" 

MOEAL. 

I just have room for the moral here : 

And this is the moral, — Stick to your sphere. 

Or if you insist, as you have the right, 

On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 

The moral is, — Take care how you light. 

J. T. Trowbridge; 



SELECTIONS. 77 



NO SECT IN HEAVEN. 

Talking of sects till late one eve, 

Of the various doctrines the saints believe, 

That night I stood in a troubled dream, 

By the side of a darkly-flowing stream. 

And a "Churchman " down to the river came, 

When I heard a strange voice call his name, 

" Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide, 

You must leave your robes on the other side." 

But the aged father did not mind, 
And his long gown floated out behind, 
As down to the stream his way he took, 
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 

" I'm bound for Heaven, and when I'm there 

I shall want my book of Common Prayer ; 

And though I put on a starry crown, 

I should feel quite lost without my gown." 

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, 
But his gown was heavy, and held him back ; 
Bnt the poor old father tried in vain, 
A single step in the flood to gain. 

1 saw him again on the other side, 
But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
And no one asked in that blissful spot, 
Whether he belonged to " the Church " or not. 

When down to the river a Quaker strayed, 
His dress of a sober hue was made ; 
" My coat and hat must be all gray, 
I cannot go any other way. " 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, 
And staidly, solemnly, waded in, 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight 
Over his forehead, so cold and white. 

Rut a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
A moment he silently sighed over that, 
And then, as he gazed on the farther shore 
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 



78 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

As he entered Heaven, his suit of gray- 
Went quietly sailing away, away, 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver's brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of Psalms, 

Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 

And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 

That the people in Heaven, "all round," might sing. 

But I thought he heaved an anxious sigh, 
As he saw that the river ran broad and high, 
And looked rather surprised as, one by one 
The Psalms and Hymns in the wave went down. 

And after him with his MSS., 

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness ; 

But he cried, " Dear me, what shall I do ; 

The water has soaked them through and through." 

And there on the river, far and wide, 
Away they went down the swollen tide. 
And the saint astonished passed through alone, 
Without his manuscripts up to the throne. 

Then gravely walking two saints by name, 
Down to the stream together came ; 
But as they stopped at the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

" Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you, friend, 

How you attained to life's great end ?" 

" Thus, with a few drops on my brow," 

u But /have been dipped, as you'll see me now. 

" And I really think it will hardly do, 
As I'm a ' close communion,' to cross with you ; 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 
Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
Away to the left— his friend at the right, 
Apart they went from this world of sin, 
But at last together they entered in. 
And, now, when the river is rolling on, 



SELECTIONS. 79 



A Presbyterian Church went down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng 

But the men I could count as they passed along. 

And concerning the road, they could never agree, 
The old or the new way, which it could be, 

Nor even a moment paused to think 
That both would lead to the river's brink. 

And a sound of murmuring long and loud 

Came ever up from the moving crowd, 

" You're in the old way, and I'm in the new, 

That is the false, and this is the true : 

Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the new, 

That is the false, and this is the true." 

But the brethren only seemed to speak, 

Modest the sisters walked, and meek, 

And if ever one of them chanced to say 

What troubles she met with on the way, 

How she longed to pass to the other side, 

Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 

A voice arose from the brethren then : 

"Let no one speak but the 'holy men ;' 

For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 

' O let the women keep silence all ?'" 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 

Till they stood by the borders of the stream, 

Then, just as I thought, the two ways met, 

But all the brethern were talking yet, 

And would talk on, till the heaving tide 

Carried them over side by side ; 

Side by side, for the way was one, 

The toilsome journey of life was done, 

And all who in L hrist the Savior died 

Come out alike on the other side ! 

No forms, or crosses, or books had they, 

No gjwns of silk, or suits of gray, 

No creeds to guide them, or MBS., 

For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 

Mrs. Cleveland. 



80 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 

Snobbleton. Yes, there is that fellow Jones again. I declare, 
the man is ubiquitous. "Wherever I go with my cousin Prudence 
we stumble across him, or he follows her like her shadow. Do 
we take a boating ? So does Jones. Do we wander on the beach ! 
So does Jones. Go where we will, that fellow follows or moves 
before. Now that was a cruel practical joke which Jones once 
played upon me at college. I have never forgiven him. But I 
would gladly make a pretence of doing so, if I could have my 
revenge. Let me see. Can't I manage it ? He is head over ears 
in love with Prudence, but too bashful to speak. I half believe 
she is not indifferent to him, though altogether unacquainted It 
may prove a match, if I cannot spoil it. Let me think. Ha ! I 
have it ! A brilliant idea ! Jones, beware ! But here he comes. 

(Enter Jones.) 

Jones. (Not seeing Snoboleton, and delightedly contemplating 
a flower, which he holds in his hand.) Oh, rapture! what a 
prize! It was in her hair— I saw it fall from her queenly head. 
(Kisses it every now and then.) How warm are its tender leaves 
from having touched her neck ! How doubly sweet is its perfume 
— fresh from the fragrance of her glorious locks ! How beautiful ! 
how — Bless me ! here is Snobbleton, and we are enemies ! 

Snobbleton. Good-morning, Jones — that is, if you will shake 
hands. 

Jones. What ! you ! you — forgive ! You really — 

Snob. Yes, yes, old fellow ! All is forgotten. You played 
me a rough trick ; but let bygones be bygones. Will you not 
bury the hatchet ? 

Jones With all my heart, my dear fellow ! 

Snob. What is the matter with you, Jones ? You look quite 
grumpy — not by any means the same cheerful, dashing, rollicking 
fellow you were. 

Jones. Bless me, you don't say so! (Aside.) Confound the 
man ! Here have I been endeavoring to appear romantic for the 
last month — and now to be called grumpy — it is unbearable ! 

Snob. But, never mind. Cheer up, old fellow ! I see it all. 
I know what it is to be in — 

Jones. Ah ! You can then sympathize with me ! You know 
what it is to be in — 

Snob. Of course I do ! Heaven preserve me from the toils ! 
And then the letters — the interminable letters ! 



SELECTIONS. 81 



Jones. Oh, yes, the letters ! the billet doux ! 

Snob. And the bills— the endless bills ! 

Jones. The bills ! 

Snob. Yes ; and the bailiffs, the lawyers, the judge and the 
jury. 

Jones. Why, man, what are you talking about ? I thought 
you said you knew what it was to be in — 

Snob. In debt. To be sure I did. 

Jones. Bless me ! I'm not in debt — never borrowed a dollar 
in my life. Ah, me ! it's worse than that. 

Snob. Worse than that ! Come now, Jones, there is only one 
thing worse. Your'e surely not in love ? 

Jones. Yes, I am. Oh, Snobby, help me, help me ! Let me 
confide in you. 

Snob. Confide in me ! Certainly, my dear fellow ? See ! I 
do not shrink — I stand firm. 

Jones. Snobby, I — I love her. 

Snob. Whom ? 

Jones. Your cousin, Prudence. 

Snob. Ha ! Prudence Angelina Winter ? 

Jones. Now don't be angry, Snobby ! I don't mean any harm, 
you know. I — I — you know how it is. 

Snob. Harm ! my dear fellow. Not a bit of it. Angry ! Not 
at all. You have my consent, old fellow. Take her. She is 
yours. Heaven bless you both. 

Jones. You are very kind, Snobby, but I haven't got her con- 
sent, yet. 

Snob. Well, that is something, too be sure. But, leave it all 
to me. She may be a little coy, you know ; but, considering your 
generous overlooking of her unfortunate defect — 

Jones. Defect ! You surprise me. 

Snob. What ! and you did not know of it ? 

Jones. Not at all. lam astonished ! Nothing serious, I hope. 

Snob. Oh no ! only a little — (He taps Ms ear with his finger, 
knowingly.} I see you understand it. 

Jones. Merciful heaven ! can it be ? But really, is it serious ? 

Snob. I should think it was. 

Jones. What ! But is she ever dangerous ? 

Snob. Dangerous ! Why should she be ? 

Jones. Oh, I perceive ! A mere airiness of brain — a gentle 
aberration— scorning the dull world — a mild — 

Snob. Zounds, man ! she's not crazy ! 

11 



82 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Jones. My dear Snobby, you relieve me. What th§n ? 

Snob. Slightly deaf. That's all. 

Jones. Deaf ! 

Snob. As a lamp-post. That is, you must elevate your voice to 
a considerable pitch in speaking to her. 

Jones. Is it possible ! However, I think I can manage. As, 
for instance, if it was my intention to make her a floral offering, 
and I should say {elevating his voice considerably), " Miss, will 
you make me happy by accepting these flowers ?" I suppose she 
could hear me, eh ? How would that do ? 

Snob. Pshaw ! Do you call that elevated ? 

Jones. Well, how would this do ? (Speaks very loudly.) 
" Miss," will you make me happy — " 

Snob. Louder, shriller, man ! 

Jones. " Miss, will you—" 

Snob. Louder, louder, or she will only see your lips move. 

Jones. (Almost screaming.) "Miss, will you oblige me by 
accepting these flowers ?" 

Snob. There, that may do. Still you want practice. I per- 
ceive the lady herself is approaching. Suppose you retire for a 
short time, and I will prepare her for the introduction. 

Jones. Very good. Meantime, I will go down to the beach, 
and endeavor to acquire the proper pitch. Let me see ? "Miss, 
will you oblige me — " (Exit Jones.) 

(Enter Prudence.) 

Prudence. Good morning, cousin. Who was that, speaking 
so loudly ? 

Snob. Only Jones. Poor fellow, he is so deaf that I suppose 
he fancies his own voice to be a mere whisper. 

Pru. Why, I was not aware of this. Is he very deaf ? 

Snob. Deaf as a stone fence. To be sure, he does not use an 
ear trumpet any more, but, one must speak excessively high. Un- 
fortunate, too, for I believe he's in love. 

Pru. In love ! with whom ? 

Snob. Can't you guess ? 

Pru. Oh, no ; I haven't the slightest idea. 

Snob. With yourself ! He has been begging me to obtain him 
an introduction. 

Pru. Well, I have always thought him a nice-looking young 
man. I suppose he would hear me if I should say (speaks loudly), 
11 Good morning, Mr. Jones ?" 



n I m noi B8 



\)i> you think he would h< ar that? 
Well, then, how would $peak$ it ry loudly), "Good 

morning, Mr. Jones?" How would that do? 

Tush: hfl WOOld think vou were speaking under your 
breath. 

Pru. (Almost screaming.) "Good morning!" 

'■>. A mere whisper, my dear cousin. Hut lure he comes. 

Now, do t rv and make yourself audible. 
(Enter Jones.) 

Snob. (Speaking in a high voice.) Mr. Jones, cousin. Miss 
Winter, Jones. You will please excuse me for a short time. 
(He retires hut rernains mhere he can uieir the speakers.) 

Snob. (Speaking shrill and loud.) Miss, will you accept 
these Mowers ? I plucked them from their slumber on the hill. 

Pru. (In an equally high voice.) Really sir, I — I — 

Jones. (Aside.) She hesitates. It must be that she does not 
hear me. (Increasing his tone.) Miss, will you accept these 
flowers — flowers ? I plucked them sleeping on the hill — hill. 

Pru. (Also increasing her tone.) Certainly, Mr. Jones. They 
are beautiful — BEAr-r-TiFFL. 

Jones. (Aside.) How she screams in my ear. (Aloud.) Yes, 
I plucked them from their slumber — slumber, on the hill— 

HILL. 

Pru. (Aside.) Poor man, what an effort it seems for him to 
speak. (Aloud.) I perceive you are poetical. Are you fond of 
poetry ? (Aside.) He hesitates. I must speak louder. (In a 
scream. ) Poetry— Poetry— POETRY ! 

Jones. (Aside. ) Bless me, the woman would wake the dead ! 
(Aloud.) Y^es, Miss, I ad-o-r-e it. 

Snob. Glorious ! glorious ! I wonder how loud they can scream ( 
Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet ! 

Pru. Can you repeat some poetry— poetry ? 

Jones. I only know one poem. It is this : 

You'd scarce expect one of my age — Age, 
To speak in public on the stage — Stage. 

Pru. Bravo — bravo ! 

Jones. Thank you ! Thank — 

Pru. Mercy on us ! Do you think I'm deaf, sir ? 

Jones. And do you fancy me deaf, Miss? (Natural tone.) 

Pru. Are you not, sir ? you surprise me ! 



84 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Jones. No, Miss. I was led to believe that you were deaf. 
Snobbleton told me so. 

Pru. Snobbleton ! Why, he told me that you were deaf. 

Jones. Counfound the fellow ! he has been making game of 
us. 

Beadle's Dime Speaker. 



WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT, MAMMA? 

Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? I'm tired of wait- 
ing so, 

My stocking hung by the chimney side full three long days ago. 

I run to peep within the door, by morning's early light, 

'Tis empty still — Oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come to- 
night ? 

Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? the snow is on the 

hill, 
The ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow rill. 
I heard you tell papa last night his son must have a sled 
(I didn't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates you said. 

I prayed for just those things, mamma, O, 1 shall be full of 

glee, 
And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envying 

me ; 
But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make their 

New Year glad, 
For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are bad. 

And won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's day, 
And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow Gray ? 
I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden gate, — 
Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? it seems so long to 
wait. 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep, 
My stocking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes you 

weep? 
But it only held a little shroud — a shroud and nothing more : 
An open coffin — open for me — was standing on the floor. 



SELECTIONS. 85 



It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts instead 
Of all the toys I wished so much, the story-book and sled ; 
But while I wondered what it meant, you came with tearful 

joy 
And said, " Thou'lt find the New Year first ; God calleth/thee, 

my boy !" 
It is not all a dream, mamma, I know it must be true ; 
But have I been so bad a boy God taketh me from you ? 
I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest, — 
And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast. 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, — your cold hand on 

my cheek, 
And raise my head a little more — it seems so hard to speak ; 
You need not fill my stocking now, I cannot go and peep, 
Before to morrow's sun is up, I'll be so sound asleep. 

I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled ; 
But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my 

head ? 
He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures too, 
But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do. 

And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-book and slate, 
To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you would not let me hate ; 
And dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New T Year day, 
The basket full of something nice for poor old widow Gray. 

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very soon, 

I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June ; 

I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much 

care, 
And may be for your sake, mamma, He doesn't hear my prayer. 

It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer flowers green, 
And plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few I mean, 
When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree, 
Where you and robin, in the morn, may come and sing to me. 

The New Year comes — good night, mamma — " I lay me down 

to sleep 
I pray the Lord" — tell poor papa — " my soul to keep ; 
If I" — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me, I cannot see — 
The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year — dies with 



Coba M. Eager. 



86 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

A well there is in the west country, 

And a clearer one never was seen ; 
There's not a wife in the west country 

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. 

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been traveling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cold and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the house hard by, 
At the well to fill his pail ; 

On the well-side he rested it, 

And bade the stranger hail. 

" Art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he ; 
" For an' if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, 
Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an' if she have, I'll venture my life 
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." 

"I have a good woman who never was here," 

The stranger made reply ; 
" But why should she be better for that, 

I pray you answer why ?" 

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time 
Drank of this crystal well, 
And before the angel summoned her, 
She laid on the water a spell. 

" If the husband, of this gifted well 
Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man henceforth is he, 
For he shall be master for life. 



SELECTIONS. 87 



" But if the wife should drink of it first, 
God help the husband then ;" 
The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, 
And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?" 
He to the Cornish-man said ; 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spoke, 
And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, 
And left my wife in the porch ; 
But, 'i faith, she had been wiser than me, 
For she took a bottle to church. " 

Robert Sotjthey. 



MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY. 

" What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney. 

" Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels 
happy." 

"Happy, are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you don't 
own a foot of land in the world ?" 

"Foot of land, is it ?" she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh ; "oh, 
what a hand ye be after joking; why, I haven't a penny, let alone 
the land." 

" Your mother is dead !" 

" God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a touch 
of genuine pathos ; "may the angels make her bed in heaven." 

" Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose." 

"Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink, 
drink, and beating his poor wife, that he is, the creature." 

" You have to pay your little sister's board." 

"Sure, the bit creature, and she is a good little girl, is Hinny, 
willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money 
what goes" for' that. 

* ' You haven't many fashionable dresses either, Mary Maloney. " 

"Fashionable, is it ? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in 
my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies'. 
But then ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, two 
shoes to me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood 
ye gave me. " 



88 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

"You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney. 

" Oh, be off wid ye — ketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these 
days, when the hard times is come. No, No, thank Heaven, I 
haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it. " 

"What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? A 
drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no 
lover; why, where do you get all your happiness from ?" 

"The Lord be praised, Miss, it gro wed up in me. Give me a 
bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the 
right time, and I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and 
then if deep trouble comes, why God helpin' me, I'll try to keep 
my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue 
should take it into his head to come and ax me, but, the Lord will- 
in', I'd try to bear up under it." 

Philadelphia Bulletin. 



THE SWAN'S NEST. 

Little Ellie sits alone 

Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side, on the grass ; 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow, 

On her shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by ! 

And her feet she has been dipping 
In the shallow water's flow ; — 
Now she holds them nakedly 

In her hands, all sleek and dripping 
While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone ; 

And the smile she softly uses, 

Fills the silence like a speech ; 
While she thinks what shall be done,- 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses, 

For her future within her reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooseth — " I will have a lover, 
Riding on a steed of steeds ! 



SELECTIONS. 89 



He shall love me without guile ; 
And to him I will discover 

The swan's nest among the reeds. 
"And the steed shall be red-roan, 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath ! 

"And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble 

As his sword strikes men to death. 
And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind ; 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure, 

Till the shepherds look behind. 

"But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in. 
When he gazes in my face 
He'wnTsay, ; O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in 
And I kneel here for thy grace.' 
" Then, aye ! then he shall kneel low, 
With the red-roan steed auear him, 
Which shall seem to understand — 
Tiil I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 
Whom I gift with heart and hand. 

" Then'he'will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

With a yes I must not say — 

Nathless maiden brave, 'Farewell," 
I will utter and dissemble — 

'Light to-morrow with to-day, 
"Then he'll ride among the hills 
To the wide worldjpast the river, 

There to put away all wrong : 

To make straight distorted wills, 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along:. 

12 



00 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



''Three times shall a young foot-page 

Swim the stream and climb the mountain 

And kneel down t)3side my feet — 

' Lo ! my master sends this gage, 

Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

What wilt thou exchange for it ?' 

" And the first time I will send 

A white rosebud for a guerdon — 
And the second time a glove : 
But the third time — I may bend 

From my pride, and answer — 'Pardon — 
If he comes to take my love/ 

"Then the young foot-page will run- 
Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a duke's tldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But, O Love, I love but thee P 

" He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then ; and lead me as a lover, 

Through the crowds that praise his deeds ; 

And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
Unto him I will discover 

That swan's next among the reeds. '' 

Little Ellie, with her smile 

Not yet ended, rose up gxyly, 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — 
And went homeward, round a mile, 

Just to see, as she did daiJy, 
What more eggs were with the two. 

Pushing through the elm-tree copse 
Winding by the stream, light-hearted, 
Where the ozier pathway leads — 
Past the boughs she stoops — and stops ! 
Lo ! the wild swan h id deserted, — 
And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

Ellie went home sad and slow : 
If she found the lover ever, 
With his red-roan steed of steeds, 



SELECTIONS. 91 



Sooth I know not ! but I know 
She could never show him — never. 
That swan's nest among the reeds ! 

Mrs. Browning. 



EVENING AT THE FARM. 

Over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
His shadow lengthens along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
In the poplar-tree, above the spring, 
The katy-did begins to sing , 

The early dews are falling ; — 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; 
The swallows skim the liver's brink; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
Cheerily calling, 

" Co,' bos ' co', boss ! co' ! co' I co' !" 
Farther, farther, over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still, 

" Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co'!" 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Looing, pushing, little and great ; 

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 

The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling ; — 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
And the white stream into the bright pail flows, 
A\ hen to her task the milkmaid goes, 

Soothingly calling ; 
u So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so !" 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 

Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!" 

To supper at last the farmer goes. 
The apples are pared, the paper read, 
The stories are told, then all to bed. 



92 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long ; 

The heavy clews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
The household sinks to deep repose, 
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 
Singing, calling, — 
" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 
Murmuring, <fc So, boss! so!" 

J. T. Teowbeidge. 



PUTTING UP STOVES. 

One who has had considerable experience in the work of put- 
ting up stoves says the first step to be taken is to put on a very 
old and ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his 
mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirt bosom clean. Next he 
gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and 
blacks his fingers, and then he carefully makes a black mark down 
one side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway, in 
doing this work, until this mark is made down the side of the nose. 
Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin 
the ceremony. The head of the family — who is the big goose of the 
sacrifice — grasps one side of the bottom of the stove, and his wife 
and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load 
is started from the wood-shed toward the parlor. Going through 
the door the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the 
stove around, and jam his thumb-nail against the door-post. This 
part of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove 
comfortably in place, the next thing is to find the legs. Two of 
these are left inside the stove since the spring before. The other 
two must be hunted after for twenty-five minutes. They are 
usually found under the coal. Then the head of the family holds 
up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in 
place, and next he holds up the other side while the other two are 
fixed, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is 
on its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his old coat regardless 
of his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in 



SELECTIONS. 93 



bis eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put 
up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. 
The bead of the family jams his bat over his eyes, and taking a 
pipe under each arm, goes to the tin-shop to have it fixed. When 
he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if 
the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will 
scratch the varnish off from the chair with the nails in his boot- 
heel. In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may 
thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, 
and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the 
pipe off, the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. 
So he goes to the wood-shed and splits one side of the end of the 
pipe with an old axe, 'and squeezes it in his hands to make it small- 
er. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the stove 
does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hired girl 
move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again. Next it is 
to move to the right. More difficulty with the legs. Moved to 
the fro at a ltitle. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, 
and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. While 
putting the blocks under the legs, the pipe comes out of the 
chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over to the 
great alarm of the wife. Head of the family g.-ts the dinner-table 
out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and 
balances himself on it to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops 
the hammer on to wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, 
makes a wire-swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls 
a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony 
completed. 

Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruined his reputa- 
tion if he had. 



EXTRACT FROM KING JOHN. 

Enter Hubert and two Attendants. 
Hud. Heat me these irons hot : and, look thou stand 

[Gives the irons to 2d Attendant. 
Within the arras : when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth 
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, 
Fast to the chair : be heedful. Hence, and watch. 
1st Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. 
[Going l., pvuses and speaks. 



94 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Hub, Uncleanly scruples \ Fear not you : look to't. — 
[Exeunt Attendants l Hubert unlocks door, f., and calls. 
Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. 
Enter Arthur, o. d. f. 

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 
Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 

[Goes to chair, r., sits, and leans on tvble. 
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 

To be more prince) as may be.— You are sad. 

[Arthur, who has been playing with his bow l., suddenly 

looks at Hubert intently, then goes to him. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mercy on me ! 
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I : 
Yet, I remember, when I was in France 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 
I should be as merry as the day is long ; 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practices more harm to me : 
He is afraid of me, and I of him. 
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ? 
No, indeed, is't not : and I would to Heaven 
I we^e your son, so you would love me, Hubert, 

Hub. [Aside. ,] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate, 
He will awake my me^cy, which lies dead : 
Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day. 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick: 
That I might sit all night, and watch with you : 
I warrant, I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. [Aside.~] His words do take posesssion of my bosom. — 

[Rises and gives him the warrant. 

Read here, young Arthur. [Aside.} How now, foolish rheum? 
I must be brief ; lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. — 
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? 
Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. 



SELECTIONS. 95 



Must you with hot irons bum out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? 
Will you put out mine eyes ? 
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 
So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it, 
And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Oh, oh, oh! 
And if an angel should have come to me, [ Weeping. 

And told me 1 [ubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believed him : no tongue but Hubert's. 

{Pause. 

Hub. Come forth, {Stamps. 

Re-enter Attendants, icith cord, irons, &c, l. Arthur runs 
shrieking to cling around Hubert, k. The 2d Attendant puts 
down the pan of fire, and gives the iron across to Hubert. 1st 
Attendant has the rope and seizes Arthur. They both strive to 
disengage and drag him away as he says, " Nay, hear me," &c. 

Hub. Do as I bid you. 

Arth Oh ! save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out 
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arth. Alas! What need you be so boisterous rough? 
I will not struggle ; I will stand stone-still. 
For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound. 
Nay, hear me, Hubert : drive these men away, 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
Nor look upon the iron angerly. 
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, 
Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 

\st Att. 1 am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

{Exeunt Attendants, i*. 

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; 
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.— 



96 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth. [Weeping.'] Is there no remedy? Oh! Oh! 

Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 

Art. Oh, heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, 
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 
Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, 
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 

Hub. Is this your promise ? go to ; hold your tongue. 

Arth. Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not Hubert : 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 
So I may keep mine eyes. Oh, spare mine eyes ; 
Though to no use, but still to look on you. 
Lo ! by my troth the instrument is cold, 
And would not harm me. 

Hub. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief, 
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 
And strewed repentant ashes on his haacl. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it boy. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert : 

[Pause. 

Hub. [Throws away the iron — kneels and embraces Arthur. 
I will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. 

Arth. Oh! now you look like Hubert: all this while 
You were disguised. 

Hub. [Goes l., listens, and returns.] Peace! no more. 
Adieu. 
Your uncle must not know but you are dead : 
I'll rill these dogged spies with false reports ; 
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 
Will not offend thee. 

Arth. Oh, heaven! [Kisses Hubert.) I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence ! no more. Go closely in with me ; 
Much danger do I undergo for thee. 

Shakspeabe. 



SELECTIONS. 97 



MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. 

Och! don't be talkin.' It is ho wid on, ye say? An' didn't 
I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me 
wastin' that thin, you could clutch me wid yer two hands. To 
think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I've been in Amer- 
iky — bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry ! to be bate 
by the likes o' them ! (f aix an' I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I 
will, Ann Ryan, an' ye'd better be listnin' than drawing your re- 
marks) an' is it mysel, with five good characters from respectable 
places, would be herdin' wid the haythens ? The saints forgive 
me but I'd be buried alive sooner n put up wid it a day longer. Sure 
an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus 
kini into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter man 
which was brought out from Calif orny. "He'll be here the 
night," says she, "and Kitty, it's meself looks to you to be kind 
and patient wid him, for he's a furriner," says she. a kind o' look- 
in' off. " Sure an it's little I'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor 
any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how 
these French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on 
their fingers, isn't company for no gurril brought up dacint and 
honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus 
walked into me kitchen smilin,' and says kind o' schared: " Here's 
Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you'll have too much sinse to mind his 
behr a little strange. " Wid that she shoots the doore, and I, mis- 
thrustin' if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper 
collar, looks up and — Howly fathers ! may I niver brathe another 
breath, but there stood a rale haythen Chineser a grinnin' like he'd 
just come off a tay box. If you'll belave me, the crayture was 
that yeller it 'ud sicken you to see him : and sorra stitch was on 
him but a black night gown over his trowsers and the front of 
his head shaved claner than a copper biler, and a black tail a 
hangin' down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the hea- 
thenestest shoes you ever set eyes on. Och! but I was up-st airs 
afore you could turn about, a givm' the missus warnin,' and only 
stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, and playdin' 
wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins and 
taitch 'em all in our power — the saints save us ! Well, the ways 
and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. 
Not a blissed thing cud I do but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes 
cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout a speck or 
smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger nails full a yard long. 

13 



08 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

But it's dyin' you'd be to see the missus a larniu' him, and he grin- 
nin' and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imi- 
tatin' that sharp, you'd be shurprised, and ketchin' and copyin' 
things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want 
cornin' to the knowledge of the family — bad luck to him ! 

But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doin' till ye'd be 
dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet that's on me since 
ever I've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to that I fell into the 
habit o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be settin' down to pale the 
praties or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind ! that haythin would 
do the same thing after me, whiniver the missus set him to parin' 
apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven couldn't have 
made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be pay- 
lin' anything. 

Did I lave fur that ? Faix an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into 
throuble wid my missus, the haythin'? You're aware yersel' how 
the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n '11 
go into anything dacently. So, for that matter I'd now and then 
take out a sup o' sugar, or flour or tay, an' wrap it in paper and 
put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how 
it cucldent be boclderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this 
blessed Sathurday morn the missus was a spakin' pleasant and re- 
spectful wid me in me kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' 
stands f orninst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to Fing 
Wing (which I never would call him by that name nor any other 
but just haythin'), she motions to him, she does, for to take the 
boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what not where they be- 
longs. If you'l belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherm' 
Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an a 
bit o' chase right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, 
an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the 
ironin' blanket and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to 
put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and the 
missus savin,' "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood. 
" He's a haythen nagur," says I. " I've found you out," says she. 
"I'll arrist him," says I. u It's you ought to be arristed," says 
she. "You won't" says I. "I will," says she — and so it went 
till' she give me such sass as I cucldent take from no lady — an' I give 
her warnin' and left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. 



SELECTIONS. 99 



THE FAMINE. 

O the long and dreary Winter ! 

O the cold and crn el Winter ! 

Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 

Froze the ice on lake and river ; 

Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 

Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 

Fell the covering snow, and drifted 

Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 

Could the hunter force a passage ; 

With his mittens and his snowshoes 

Vainly walk'd he through the forest, 

Sought for bird or beast and found none 

Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 

In the snow beheld uo footprints, 

In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 

Perish'd there from cold and hunger. 

O the famine and the fever ! 

O the wasting of the famine ! 

O the blasting of the fever ! 

O the wailing of the children ! 

O the anguish of the women ! 

All the earth was sick and famished ; 

Hungry was the air around them, 

Hungry was the sky above them, 

And the hungry stars in heaven, 

Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 

Came two other guests, as silent 

As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 

Waited not to be invited, 

Did not parley at the doorway, 

Sat there without word of welcome 

In the seat of Laughing Water ; 

Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 

At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 

I am Famine, Bukadawin!" 



100 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

And the other said ! " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 
And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shudder'd as they look'd npon her, 
Shudder'd at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they utter'd. 

Forth into the empty forest 

Rushed the madden'd Hiawatha ; 

In his heart was deadly sorrow. 

In his face a stony firmness, 

On his brow the sweat of anguish 

Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting, 

With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 

With his quiver full of arrows, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Into the vast and vacant forest 

On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 

" Gitche Manito, the Mighty!" 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 

" Give your children food, O father ! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha !" 
Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 

" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha !" 

All day long roved Hiawatha 

In that melancholy forest, 

Through the shadow of whose thickets, 



SELECTIONS. 101 



In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
11 1 will follow you, my husband !" 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 

With those gloomy guests, that watch'd her, 

With the Famine and the Fever, 

She was lying, the Beloved, 

She the dying Minnehaha. 
" Hark !" she said, "I hear a rushing, 

Hear a roaring and a rushing, 

Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 

Calling to me from a distance !" 
" No, my child !" said old Nokoniis, 
" 'Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees !" 
" Look ! " she said ; " I see my father 

Standing lonely in his doorway, 

Beckoning to me from his wigwam 

In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons !" 

" Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 

Glare upon me in the darkness, 

I can feel his icy ringers 

Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 

Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 

Far away amid the forest, 

Miles away among the mountains, 

Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 

Heard the voice of Minnehaha 

Calling to him in the darkness, 
u Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 



102 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumber'd branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perish'd for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! W ahono win ! " 
And he rush'd into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moan'd and shudder'd, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he cover'd, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments ; 
Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine, 
Cover'd her with snow like ermine : 
^ Thus they buried Minnehaha. 

And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 



SELECTIONS. 103 



For her soul upon its journey- 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning.in the forest, 
Lightiog up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watch'd it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguish'd, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

" Farewell !" said he, "Minnehaha ! 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you I 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter !" 

H. W. Longfellow. 



i 



THE GHOST. 

'Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, 
A short, round-favored, merry 
Old soldier of the Revolutionary 
War, 

Was wedded to 
A most abominable shrew. 
The temper, sir, of Shakspeare's Catharine 
Could no more be compared with hers, 
Than mine 
With Lucifer's. 

Her eyes were like a weasel's : she had a harsh 
Face, like a cranberry marsh, 
All spread 



104 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



With spots of white and red ; 
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, 
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. 
The appellation of this lovely dame 
Was Nancy ; don't forget the name. 

Her brother David was a tall, 
Good-looking chap, and that was all ; 
One of your great, big nothings, as we say 
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes 
And cracking them on other folks. 
Well, David undertook one night to play 
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, 
He knew, 

Would be returning from a journey through 
A grove of forest wood 
That stood 
Below 
The house some distance, — half a mile, or so. 

With a long taper 
Cap of white paper, 
Just made to cover 
A wig, nearly as large over 
As a corn-basket, and a sheet 
With both ends made to meet 
Across his breast, 

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed) 
He took 
His station near 
A huge oak-tree, 
Whence he could overlook 
The road and see 
Whatever might appear. 

It happened that an hour before, friend Abel 
Had left the table 

Of an inn, where he had made a halt, 
With horse and wagon, 
To taste a flagon 
Of malt 
Liquor, and so forth, Which, being done, 



SELECTIONS. 105 



He went on, 

Caring no more for twenty ghosts, 

Than if they were so many posts. 

David was nearly tired of waiting ; 
His patience was abating ; 
At length, he heard the careless tones 
Of his kinsman's voice, 
And then the noise 
Of wagon- wheels among the stones. 
Abel w r as quite elated, and was roaring 
With all his might and pouring 
Out, in great confusion, 
Scraps of old songs made in " the Revolution." 

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton ; 
And jovially he went on, 
Scaring the whip-po-wills among the trees 
With rhymes like these : — [Sings.] 
" See the Yankees 
-* Leave the hill, 

With baggernets declining, 
With lopped-down hats 
And rusty guns, 
And leather aprons shining. 
' « See the Yankees— Whoa ! Why, what is that ?" 
Said Abel, staring like a cat, 
As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode 
Into the middle of the road. 

"My conscience! what a suit of clothes! 
Some crazy fellow, I suppose. 

Hallo ! friend, what's your name ? by the powers of gin, 
That's a strange dress to travel in." 
" Be silent, Abel; for now I have come 
To read your doom ; 

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. 
I am a spirit" — "I suppose you are ; 
But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why : 
Here is a fact which you can not deny ; — 
All spirits must be either good 
Or bad, — that's understood, — 

14 



106 PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. 

And be you good or evil, I am sure 

That I'm secure. 

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil, — 

And I don't know but you may be the Devil, — 

If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, 

That I am married to your sister Nancy ! " 



SHAMUS O'BRIEN. 
Jist afther the war, in the year '98, 
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got, 
To hang him by thrial — barrin' sich as was shot. 
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night. 
I'ts them were hard times for an honest gossoon . 
If he missed in the judges — he'd meet a dragoon ; 
An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, 
The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. 
An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' 
Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin', 
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, 
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet, — 
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, 
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay ; 
An' the bravest and hardiest boy iv them all 
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. 
His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, 
An' the keen-f anged hound had not teeth ha If so white; 
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, 
And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red. 
An' for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye, 
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, 
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright, 
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night ! 
An' he was the best mower that ever has been, 
An' iDigantest hurler that ever was seen. 
An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, 
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare ; 
An' by gorra, the whole world gev it into him there, 
An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught, 
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, 



SELECTIONS. 107 



An' it's many the one can remember quite well 

The quare things he done : an' it's often I heerd tell 

How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin four, 

An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. 

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, 

An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best ; 

After many a brave action of power and pride, 

An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, 

An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, 

In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, 

For the door of the prison must close on you soon, 

An' take your last look on her dim lovely light, 

That falls on the mountain and valley this night ; 

One look at the village, one look at the flood, 

An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood ; 

Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, 

An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still ; 

Farewell to the patherin, the hurlin' an' wake, 

And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake. 

An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, 

An' the turnkey resaved him, ref usin' all bail ; 

The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound, 

An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison-ground, 

An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there 

As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air ; 

An' happy remembrances crowding on ever, 

As fast as the foam-flakes dhrif t down on the river, 

Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, 

Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. 

But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart 

Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start ; 

An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, 

An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, 

By the hopes of the good an' the cause of the brave, 

That when he was mouldering in the cold grave 

His enemies never should have it to boast 

His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost ; 

His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry, 

For, undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. 



108 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, 

The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, 

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, 

An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword-in-hand ; 

An' the court house so full that the people were bothered, 

An' attorn&ys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered ; 

An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, 

An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; 

An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big, 

With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig ; 

An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said, 

The court was as still as the heart of the dead, 

An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, 

An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. 

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, 

An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, 

An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, 

A chance to escape, nor a word to clef end ; 

An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, 

As calm and as cold as a statue of stone ; 

And they read a bi^ writin', a yard long at laste, 

An' Jim didn't understand it, nor mind it a taste, 

An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, 

" Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase ?" 



An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, 

An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: 

" My lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time 

"I thought any treason, or did any crime 

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, 

The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, 

Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow, 

Before God and the world I would answer you, no ! 

But if you would ask me, as I think it like, 

If in the rebellion I carried a pike, 

An fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, 

An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, 

I answer you, yes ; and I tell you again, 

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then 

In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, 

An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." 



SELECTIONS. 109 



Then - the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, 

An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; 

By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap ! 

In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. 

Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by, 

Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : 

"O, judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! 

The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord ; 

He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; 

You don't know him, my lord — O, don't give him to ruin ! 

He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest hearted ; 

Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. 

Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him my lord, 

An' God will forgive you — O, don't say the word!" 

That was the first minute that O'Bkien was skaken, 

When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken : 

An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, 

The big tears wor running fast, one af ther the other ; 

An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, 

But the sthrong, manly voice used to f alther and break ; 

But at last by the strength of his high-mounting pride, 

He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide, 

" An," says he, " mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, 

For, sooner or later, the dearest must part ; 

And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear 

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, 

To lie in the grave where the head, heart and breast, 

From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest. 

Then, mother, my darlin,' don't cry any more, 

Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour ; 

For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, 

No thrue man cay say that I died like a craven !" 

Then towards the judge Shamtjs bent down his head, 

An' that minute the solemn death-sentince was said. 

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, 
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky ; 
But why are the men standin' idle so late ? 
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street ? 
What come they to talk of ? what come they to see ? 
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree ? 



110 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

O, Shamus O'Brien ! pray fervent and fast, 

May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last ; 

Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, 

When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die. 

An' f asther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, 

Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair ; 

An' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck too, 

An 'ould men and young women enjoying the view. 

An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, 

There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark, 

An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for divil sich a scruge, 

Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge, 

For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, 

Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on. 

At last they threw open the big prison gate, 

An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state, 

An' a cart in the middle, an Shamus was in it, 

Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute, 

An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, 

Wid prayin' and blessin' and all the girls cryin', 

A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees, 

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. 

On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, 

An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on ; 

An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, 

A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. 

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, 

An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand ; 

An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, 

An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round. 

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, 

Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill ; 

An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, 

For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare ; 

An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. 

But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, 

And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground ; 

Bang ! bang ! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres ; 

He's not down I he!s alive still ! now stand to him, neighbors ! 

Through the smoke and the horses He's into the crowd, — 



SELECTIONS. Ill 



By the heavens, he's free!— than thunder more loud, 
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken- 
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. 
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, 
An' Father M alone lost his new Sunday hat ; 
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, 
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in, 
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, 
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang. 

He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be 
In America, darlint, the land of the free. 



Samuel Lover. 



SOCRATES SNOOKS. 

Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, 

The second time entered the married relation : 

Zantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 

And they thought him the happiest man in the land. 

But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, 

When one morning to Zantippe Socrates said, 

"I think, for a man of my standing in life, 

This house is too small, as I now have a wife : 

So, early as possible, carpenter Carey 

Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." 

"Now, Socrates, dearest," Zantippe replied, 

" I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; 

Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 

Say our cow-house, our barnyard, our pig pen." 

" By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 

Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." 

"Say our" Zantippe exclaimed in a rage. 

"I wont, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age ! " 

O, woman ! though only part of man's rib, 

If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, 

Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, 

You are certain to prove the best man of the two. 

In the following case this was certainly true ; 

For the lovely Zantippe just pulled off her shoe, 

And laying about her, all sides at random, 

The adage was verified—" Nil desperanduni-." 



112 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, 
To ward off the blows which descended like rain — 
Concluding that valor's best part was discretion — 
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian : 
But the dauntless Zantippe, not one whit afraid, 
Converted the siege into a blockade. 

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 

He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate : 

And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 

Said, " My dear ! may we come out from under our bed ? " 

"Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, 

I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks : 

Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour, 

If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 

Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, 

He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search : 

Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, 

"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches ? " 

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER. 

A'Frenchman once, — so runs a certain ditty — 

Had crossed the Straits to famous London city, 

To get a living by the arts of France, 

And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance. 

But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill ; 

His fortunes sank from low to lower still ; 

Until, at last, — pathetic to relate, — 

Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. 

Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door, 

And gazing in, with aggravation sore, 

He mused within himself what he should do 

To fill his empty maw, and pocket too. 

By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan, 

And thus to execute it straight began : 

A piece of common brick he quickly found, 

And with a harder stone to powder ground. 

Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece 

Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas," 

And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try, 

To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. 

From street to street he cried, with lusty yell, 



SELECTIONS. 113 



u Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell !" 

And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last, 

For soon a woman hailed him as he passed, 

Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot, 

And made him five crowns richer on the spot. 

Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, 

Went into business on a larger scale ; 

And soon, throughout all London, scattered he 

The "only genuine poudare for de flea." 

Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation 

Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, 

He thought he heard himself in anger called ; 

And, sure enough, the self -same woman bawled, — 

In not a mild or very tender mood, — 

From the same window where before she stood. 

"Hey, there, ' r said she, "you Monsher Powder-man ! 

Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can ; 

I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know 

That decent people won't be cheated so." 

Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh, 

With humble attitude and tearful eye ; — 

"Ah, Madame ! sil vous plait, attendez vous, — 

I vill dis leetle ting explain to you : 

My poudare gran' ! magnifique ! why abuse him ? 

Aha ! 1 show you liow to use Mm ; 

First, you must wait until you catch de flea : 

Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see ; 

And Avhen he laugh,— aha ! he ope his throat ; 

Den poke de poudare down ! — Beoar ! he choke." 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 

"I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; "Ive 
been a writin'." 

"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I 
hope, Sammy." 

"Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a wal- 
entine." 

"A what?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken 
by the word. 

" A walentine," replied Sam. 

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, 

15 



114 SELECTIONS. 



"I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had 
o' your father's wicious propensities ; arter all I've said to you 
upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the 
company o' your own niother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was 
a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' 
day ! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd 
ha' done it. " These reflections were too much for the good old 
man ; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off the con- 
tents. 

"Wot's the matter now? " said Sam. 

"Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a wery ag- 
onizing trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's 
vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer 
said he vos af eercl he should be obliged to kill him for the London 
market. " 

" Wot'll be a trial? " inquired Sam. 

"To see you married, Sammy; to see you a deluded wictim, 
and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied 
Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, 
Sammy." 

"Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't goin' to get married, don't you 
fret yourself about that. I know your'e a judge o' these things ; 
order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter, — there ! " 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, 
and began with a very theatrical air — 

"< Lovely '" 

" Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. " A double glass o' 
the inwariable, my dear." 

" Yery well, sir," replied the girl, who with great quickness ap- 
peared, vanished, returned, and disappeared. 

" They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. 

"Yes, replied his father, "I've been here before, in my time. 
Go on, Sammy." 

" ' Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. 

" 'Taint in poetry, is it ? " interposed the father. 

"No, no," replied Sam. 

" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's unnat'ral. 
No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or 
Warren's blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows. 
Never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, 
Sammy." 



SELECTIONS. 115 



Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam 
once more commenced and read as follows : 

" 'Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " — 

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his 
month. 

"Xo: it ain't damned," observed Sam. holding the letter up to 
the light, "it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there; 'i feel myself 
ashamed.' " 

11 Wery good," said Mr. Weller. "Go on." 

"'Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I forgot wot 
this 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in 
vain attempts to remember. 

" Why don't you look at it then ? " inquired Mr. Weller. 

"So I am a lookin' at it." replied Sam, "but there's another 
blot : here's a ; c,' and a ' i,' and a ' d.' " 

" Circuniwented. p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

"Xo, it ain't that," said Sam : " ' circumscribed,' that's it." 

"That ain't as good a word as circuniwented. Sammy." said 
Mr. "Weller, gravely. 

"Think not?" said Sam. 

" Xothim like it," replied his father. 

" But don't you think it means more? " inquired Sam. 

"Yell, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word,'' said Mr. Weller, af- 
ter a few moment's reflection. ' ' Go on, Sammy. " 

"'Feel myself ashamed and completely circarnscribed in a 
dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' " 

"That's a wery pretty sentiment." said the elder Mr. Weller, 
removing his pipe to make way for the remark. 

"Yes, think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. 

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr, 
Weller, "is, that there ain't no eallhr names in it, — no Wenuses. 
nor nothin' o' that kind ; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman 
a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ? " 

"All! what indeed ?" replied Sam. 

"You might just as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a 
king's arms at once, which is wery well known to be a col-lection 
o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. 

" Just as well," replied Sam. 

"Drive on, Sam," said Mr. Weller. 



116 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : his 
father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom 
and complacency. 

" 'Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " 

" So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. 

" ' But now.' " continued Sam, " ' now i find what a reg'lar soft- 
headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha ? been, for there ain't no- 
body like you, though i like you better than no thin' at all.' I 
thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 

" 'So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the 
gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell 
you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took 
on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a 
likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (which p'rhaps you 
may have heerd on Mary, my dear,) although it does finish a por- 
trait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the 
end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.' " 

"I am af eerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. 
Weller, dubiously. 

" No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid con- 
testing the point. 

"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think 
over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's 
all," said Sam. 

" That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it Sammy?" inquired 
Mr. Weller. 

"Not a bit on it," said Sam ; " she'll vish there wos more, and 
that's the great art o' letter writin'." 

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I 
wish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the 
same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it ?" 

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it." 

" Sign it — Yeller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that 

name. 

" Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own 
name." 

"Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller ; "its a werry good 
name, and a easy one to spell. " 

" The werry thing," said Sam." "I could end with a werse : 
what do you think ?" 



SELECTIONS. 117 



"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. " I never know'd 
a respectable coachman as wrote poetry; 'cept one as made an af- 
fectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway 
robbery, and he was only a Cambervell, so even that's no rule." 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had 
occurred to him, so he signed the letter, — 
' • Your love-sick 
Pickwick." 

Charles Dickens, 



DEATH OF MARMION. 

Straight up the hill there rode 

Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 

And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 

His hand still strain'd the broken brand ; 

His arms were smear'd with blood and sand : 

Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 

With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 

The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 

Can that be haughty Marmion! 

When, doff 'd his casque, he felt free air, 

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 

" Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz Eustace where ? 

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 

Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 

Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — vain ! 

Last of my race, on battle-plain 

That shout shall ne'er be heard again! — 

Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 

Fitz Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 

Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 

His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 

Edmund is down :— my life is reft : 

The Admiral alone is left. 

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— 

With Chester charge and Lancashire, 

Full upon Scotland's central host, 



118 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Or victory and England's lost. — 
Must I bid twice ?— hence, varlets ! fly ! 
Leave Marmion here, alone — to die!" 
They parted, and alone he lay : 
Clare drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmured, — " Is there none 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 

To slake my dying thirst ! " 
O, woman ! in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head ; 
A pious man whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, 
And — Stanley! was the cry ; — 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted, "Victory! — 
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

Walter Scott. 



PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 119 



THE SOFT NO. 

Young Kitty sat knitting ; ; - My darling," I said, 

"I have had a most beautiful dream! 
Shall I tell it ? " She gave a slight shake of the head, 

And answered : " I'm turning the seam ! " 

I reached for the mesh, speckled soft like a pink, 

That she held in her ringers so small ; 
But she answered : ''I can't leave my work, only think ! 

I am knitting a sock for a doll." 

"Don't tease me so. Kitty, my dear little one — 

You are dying to hear — I'll be bound! " 
" Just wait." she said, smiling bright as the sun, 

"Just wait till I've knitted around ! " 

I waited impatient, and then I drew near, 

And pushing the curls from her brow, 
I said : '* Are you ready, my Kitty, my dear? " 

She answered: "I'm narrowing now." 

Still nearer 1 drew — put my arm round her waist — 

And, breaking of silence the seal. 
Repeated : "Dear Kitty! why, what is your haste ? : ' 

She answered : " I'm setting the heel! " 

I smiled, and I frowned — I looked up at the clock — 

At the coals 'neath the forestick aglow, 
And then at dear Kitty — she held up the sock, 

Saying, " Would you put white in the toe ? " 

"You shall hear me Kitty, you dearest of girls, 

And then if you will, you may scoff ! " 
She shook loose the hand I had laid on her curls, 

As she said : "I'm just binding off! " 

" I dreamed of a cottage embowered with trees, 

And under the bluest of skies — " 
She checked me with — " Sit farther off, if you please ; 

My needles will get in your ejer, ! " 

1 T dreamed you were there like a rose at my door, 
And that love, Kitty, love made us rich! " 
'* I told you to sit farther off. once before! ". 
She answered : " I'm dropping a stitch ! " 



120 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

She knitted the last, and had broken the thread, 

When I cried : " Am I only a friend ? 
Or may I be a lover ? " She quietly said : 

" Pray wait till I've fastened the end ! " 

" Will you marry me? " Here the worst came to the worst, 

There was nothing to do but to go ; 
For I learned at the last, what I might have known first, 

It was all her soft way to say, No ! 

Alice Caeey. 



AN IDYL OF THE PERIOD. 

i. 
" Come right in ! How are you, Fred ? 

Find a chair, and have a light," 
"Well, old boy, recovered yet 

From the Mather's jam last night?" 
" Didn't dance — the German's old." 

-■" Didn't you ? I had to lead — 
Awful bore ! — but where were you ?" 

" Sat it out with Molly Meade ; 
Jolly little girl she is — 

Said she didn't care to dance, 
T> rather have a quiet chat — 

Then she gave me such a glance. 
So when you had cleared the room, 

And had captured all the chairs, 
Having nowhere else, we two 

Took possession of the stairs. 
I was on a lower step, 

Molly on the next above ; 
Gave me her boquet to hold — 

Asked me to draw off her glove. 
Then, of course, I squeezed her hand, 

Talked about my wasted life. 
Said my sole salvation must 

Be a true and gentle wife. 
Then, you know, I used my eyes — 

She believed me every word ; 
Almost said she loved me — Jove ! 

Such a voice I never heard — 



SELECTIONS. 121 



Gave me some symbolic flower, 

Had a meaning, oh ! so sweet. 
Don't know what it is I'm sure, 

Must have dropped it in the street. 
How I spooned ! and she — ha ! ha ! 

Well, I know it wasn't right, 
But she did believe me so, 

That I— kissed her— pass a light." 
ii. 
u Molly Meade, well I declare ! 

Who'd have thought of seeing you, 
After what occurred last night, 

Out here on the Avenue. 
Oh ! you awful, awful girl ! 

There — don't blush — I saw it all. " 
' ' Saw all what ?" " Ahem— last night— 

At the Mathers', in the hall." 
" Oh ! you horrid — where were you ? 

Wasn't he an awful goose ? 
Most men must be caught, but he 

Ban his neck right in the noose. 
I was almost dead to dance, 

I'd have done it if I could ; 
But old Gray said I must stop, 

And I'd promised ma I would ; 
So I looked up sweet and said 

That I'd rather talk with Mm. 
Hope he didn't see my face, 

Luckily the lights were dim ; 
Then how he did squeeze my hand— 

And he looked up in my face 
With his lovely, great big eyes — 

Eeally it's a dreadful case. 
He was all in earnest, too, 

But I thought I'd have to laugh 
When he kissed a flower I gave, 

Looking — oh ! like such a calf, 
I suppose he has it now, 

In a wine-glass on his shelves — 
It's a mystery to me 

Why men will deceive themselves. 

16 



122 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



Saw him kiss me ! Oh ! you wretch — 

Well he begged so hard for one, 
And I thought there'cl no one know, 

So I — let him — just for fun. 
I know- it wasn't really right 

To trifle with his feelings, dear, 
But men are such conceited things, 

They need a lesson once a year. 

G. A. Bakek. 



FIGHT BETWEEN THE KEARSARGE AND THE 
ALABAMA. 

In Cherbourg Roads the Pirate lay 
One morn in June, like a beast at bay, 
Feeling secure in the neutral port, 
Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort ; 
A thieving vulture, a coward thing, 
Sheltered beneath a despot's wing. 

And there, outside, in the calm blue bay, 

Our ocean eagle, the Kearsarge lay ; 

Lay at her ease on that Sunday morn, 

Holding the corsair ship in scorn, 

With captain and crew, in the might of their right, 

Willing to pray, but more eager to fight. 

Four bells were struck, and this thing of might, 
Like a panther crouching with fierce affright, 
Must leap from his cover, and come what may, 
Must fight for his life or steal away. 
So out of the port, with his braggart air, 
With flaunting flags sailed the proud corsair. 

The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive 

With lookers-on, like a swarming hive, 

While compelled to do what he dare not shirk, 

The Pirate went to his desperate work ; 

And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee, 

As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea. 

But our little bark smiled back at them, 



SELECTIONS. 123 



A smile of contempt, with that Union gem, 
The American banner, far-floating and free, 
Proclaiming our champions were out on the sea — 
Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land, , . 
Determined to win, under God's command. 

Down came the vulture : our eagle sat still, 

Waiting to strike with his iron-clad bill, 

Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause, 

H> could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws. 

" Clear the decks ! " then said Winslow, words measured and slow, 

" Point the guns, and prepare for this terrible blow, 

And whatever the fate of ourselves may be, 

We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea! " 

The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned, 
Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand, 
When, lo ! roared a broadside — the ship of the thief 
Was torn and wept blood in that moment of grief. 

Another ! another ! another ! and still 

The broadside went in with a hearty good will, 

Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk — 

Then down to his own native regions he sunk ; 

Down, down forty fathoms beneath the blue wave, 

And the hopes of old Europe he in the same grave : 

While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod, 

And for heroes, like Winslow, is shouting, "Thank God! " 



MODERN POETRY. 

How very absurd is half the stuff 

Called " Poetry " now-a-days ! 

The "Stanzas" and "Epics" and "Odes" are enough 

To put every lover of rhyme in a huff, 

And disgust the old hens with their "lays." 

One sighs for " wings " to " soar o'er the sea," 
" To bask in some distant clime," 
Without ever thinking how sore he'd be, 
After flying away on such a spree, 
With nothing to eat the meantime. 



124 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION, 

Another, insists on being a "bird," 

" To fly to his lady-love's bower," 

When he knows that the " lady " to whom he referred 

Don't own such a thing ; for (upon my word) 

In a " yaller " brick house, up in story the third, 

She's living this very hour. 

One asks but a "cave," in "some forest dell," 

"Away from the cold world's strife." 

Now the woods in "fine weather " are all very well, 

But give him a six weeks "rainy spell" 

And he'll soon " cave in," in his forest cell 

And be sick enough of the life. 

Another one wants his "love to go 

And roam o'er the dark blue sea." 

Perhaps he don't think if there " comes on a blow" 

That they'd both be sea-sick down below, 

And a wretched pair they'd be. 

Another young man would "like to die 

When the roses bloom in spring." 

Just let him get sick, and he'll change his cry; 

His "passing away " is all iu his eye ; 

Of "dreamless sleeps" he gets quite shy; 

It isn't exactly the thing. 

One "loves" — " how he loves the glittering foam," 
"And the mad waves' angry strife." 
Just take the young genius who wrote the " pome" 
Where the billows dash, and the sea-birds roam, 
And he'd give all he had to be safe at home ; — 
He'd stay there the rest of his life. 

Another, "heart-broken," calls on his "own" 

"To cheer him with one sweet smile." 

Then he follows it up in a lovesick tone 

With his "bosom pangs.'' — If the truth was known, 

It isn't the "love" that causes his moan, 

But a super-abundance of " bile." 



SELECTIONS. 125 



TWO LITTLE BOOTS. 

Only two little boots by the fire so bright, 

Only two little stockings to mend to night. 

The one who owns them is snug in bed, 

Where the moonbeams dance o'er his sunny head. 

These little boots gave me trouble to-day, 

Bringing in mud from out-door play, 

Scattering pebbles over the floor, 

Tracking dirt in at the great hall door. 

These little boots gave me sorrow to-day, 

Straying from mother's side away, 

Climbing trees and wading streams, 

Chasing shadows and sunny beams. 

These little stockings, so worn and gray, 

Have these tiny treasures caused trouble to-day 

Ah ! indeed they have ! in racing about, 

In joining play and merry shout. 

Alas ! I have had trouble to-day ; 

And yet would I give these treasures away ? 

Would I have their places empty to-night 

Of the little boots with toes so bright? 

Ah, me ! my very heart would break, 

If away from my sight these boots you take ; 

My house would be dreary, my young heart sad ; 

And there would be nothing to make me glad. 

So there's only two little boots so bright, 

Only two little stockings to mend to night ; 

Only one little flower, so feeble and bright, 

Only one to smile with so silver a light. 

There was a time when four were there, 

When four little faces peeped over my chair, 

Four pair of boots, so shining and bright, 

Four pair of stockings, so pure and white, 

Hung near the fire and the chimney tall, 

For the feet that wore them were dimpled and small. 

But my children are gone, their spirits have fled, 

And they are sleeping undisturbed with the dead. 

I sadly miss those three loved ones 

That are resting to night in their silent tombs, 

I miss their shouts and their merry play, 

For their little forms are not here to-day. 



126 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 



DOROTHY'S DOWER. 



"My sweetest Dorothy," said John, 

Of course before the wedding day, 
As metaphorically he stood, 

His gold upon her shedding, 
" Whatever thing you wish or want 

Shall be hereafter granted, 
For all my wordly goods are yours," 

The fellow was enchanted ! 
"About that little dower you may have 

You thought might yet come handy, 
Throw it away, do what you please, 

Spend it on sugar candy! 
I like your sweet, dependent ways, 

I love you when you tease me ; 
The more you ask, the more you spend, 

The better you will please me." 

ii. 
" Confound it, Dorothy," said John, 

" I haven't got it by me, 
You haven't, have you, spent that sum, 

The dower from Aunt Jemima ? 
No ; well that's sensible for you ; 

This fix is most unpleasant ; 
But money's tight — so just take yours 

And use it for the present. 
Now I must go — to — meet a man ! 

By George, I'll have to borrow ! 
Lend me a twenty — that's all right ! 

I'll pay you back to-morrow." 

in. 

u Madam," said John to Dorothy, 

And past her he rudely rushes ; 
" You think a man is made of gold, 

And money grows on bushes ! 
Tom's shoes ! your doctor ! Can't you now 

Get up some new disaster ? 
You and your children are enough 

To break John Jacob Astor. 



SELECTIONS. 127 



Where's what you had yourself when I 

Was fool enough to court you ? 
That little sum, till you got me, 

'Twas what had to support you ?" 
" It's lent and gone not very far ; 

Pray don't be apprehensive;" 
"Lent ? I have had use enough for it ; 

My family is expensive, 
I didn't as a woman would, 

Spend it on sugar candy ! " 
" No, John, I think the most of it 

Went for cigars and brandy." 



TUBAL CAIN. 

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might, 

In the days when earth was young : 
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright 

The strokes of his hammer rung : 
And he lifted high his brawny hand 

On the iron glowing clear, 
Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, 

As he fashion'd the sword and spear. 
And he sang, ' 'Hurrah for my handiwork ! 

Hurrah for the spear and the sword ! 
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, 

For he shall be king and lord !" 

To Tubal Cain came many a one, 

As he wrought by his roaring fire ; 
And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade, 
As the crown of his desire : 

And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 
Till they shouted loud for glee, 

And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, 

And spoils of the forest free. 
And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 

Who hath given us strength anew ! 
.Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, 

And hurrah for the metal true ! " 

But a sudden change came o'er his heart, 
Ere the setting of the sun ; 



128 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain 
For the evil he had done : 

He saw that men, with rage and hate, 
Made war upon their kind, 

That the land was red with the blood they shed, 
In their lust for carnage blind. 

And he said, " Alas that ever I made, 
Or that skill of mine should plan, 

The spear and the sword for men whose joy- 
Is to slay their fellow-man !" 

And for many a day old Tubal Cain 

Sat brooding oe'r his woe, 
And his hand forbore to smite the ore, 

And his furnace smolder'd low. 
But he rose at last with a cheerful face, 

And a bright courageous eye, 
And bared his strong right arm for work, 

While the quick flames mounted high. 
And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork !" 

And the red sparks lit the air , 
" Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made." 

And he fashioned the first ploughshare. 

And men taught wisdom from the past, 

In friendship joined their hands, 
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, 

And plow'd the willing lands, 
And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain ! 

Our stanch good friend is he ; 
And for the plowshare and the plow 

To him our praise shall be. 
But while oppression lifts its head. 

Or a tyrant would be lord, 
Though we may thank him for the plow, 

We'll not forget the sword ! " 

Charles Mackay. 



SELECTIONS. 129 



HEZEKIAH BEDOTT. 

He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially- 
after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation 
once when he was in one of his poor turns, that I never shall for- 
get the longest day I live. He says to me one winter evenin' as 
we was a settin' by the fire, I was a knittin' (I was always a won- 
derful great knitter) and he was a smokin' (he was a master hand 
to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd be better off to 
let tobacker alone ; when he was well, used to take his pipe and 
smoke a spell after he'd got the chores done up, and when he 
wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part o' the time). Well, he 
took his pipe out of his mouth and turned toward me, and I 
knowed something was comin', for he had a pertikkeier way of 
lookin' round when he was gwine to say any thing oncommon. 
Well, he says to me, says he, " Silly," (my name was Prissilly nat- 
erally, but he ginerally called me " Silly," cause 'twas handier, you 
know.) Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," and he looked 
pretty sollem, I tell you, he had a sollem countenance naterally — 
and after he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but since he'd lost his 
health he looked sollemer than ever, and certingly you wouldent 
wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was 
troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness 
in the spine of his back, besides the pleusissy in the side, and 
having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein' broke 
of his rest o' nights 'cause he was so put to 't for breath when 
he laid down. Why its an onaccountable fact that when 
that man died he hadent seen a well day in fifteen year, though 
when he was married and for five or six year after I shouldent 
desire to see a ruggeder man than what he was. But the time I'm 
speakin' of he'd been out o' health nigh upon ten year, and O 
dear sakes ! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him ! 
That was to a qui! tin' to Squire Smith's a spell afore Sally was 
married. I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be mar- 
ried to Sam Pendergrass. She d ben keepin' company with Mose 
Hewlitt, for better'n a year, and every body said that was a set- 
tled thing, and lo and behold ! all of a sudding she up and took 
Sam Pendergrass. Well, that was the first time I ever see my 
husband, and if anybody'd a told me then that I should ever marry 
him, I should a said— but lawful sakes ! I most forgot, I was a 
gwine to tell you what he said to me that evenin', and when a body 
begins to tell a thing I believe in finishin' on't some time or other. 

17 



130 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Some folks have a way of talkin' round and round for evermore, 
and never comin' to the pint. Now there's Miss Jinkins, she that 
was Poll Bingham afore she was married, she is the tejusest 
individooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. 
But I was gwine to tell you what husband said. He says to me 
says he, " Silly," says I, "What?" I dident say "What, Heze- 
kier ?" for I dident like his name. The first time I ever heard it 
I near killed myself a laffln. " Hezekier Bedott," says I, "well, 
I would give up if I had sich a name," but then you know I had 
no more idee o' marryin' the feller than you have this minute o' 
marryin' the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should a 
named our oldest son Hezekier. Well, we done it to please father 
and mother Bedott, it's father Bedott's name, and he and mother 
Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go down from 
gineration to gineration. But we always called him Kier, you 
know. Speakin' o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he ? and I ain't the 
only one that thinks so, I guess. Now don't you never tell no- 
body that I said so, but between you and me I rather guess that if 
Kezier Winkle thinks she is a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a 
leetle out of her reckonin'. But I was going to tell what husband 
said. He says to me, says he, "Silly," I says, says I, "What?" 
If I dident say "what" when he said " Silly," he'd a kept on say- 
ing "Silly," from time to eternity. He always did, because, you 
know, he wanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and I ginerally 
did ; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what 
I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly." Says I "What?" 
though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say, dident know but 
what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt 
to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldent 
wish his worst enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the 
time, but that can't be called grumblin' — think it can? Why, 
I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could 
a helped grumblin,' but he dident. He and me went once in the 
dead o' winter in a one hoss slay out to Boonville to see a sister o' 
hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the 
kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them are flambergasted 
snow-banks, and there we sot, onable to stir, and to cap all, while 
we was a sittin' there, husband was took with a dretful, crick in his 
back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you ? 
Most men would a swore, but husband dident. He only said, says 
he, "Consarn it." How did we get out, did you ask? Why we 



SELECTIONS. 181 



might a been sittin' there to this day fur as / know, if there had- 
ent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team and 
they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation 
o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, " Silly," (I could see by the 
light o' the fire, there dident happen to be no candle burnin , , if I 
dont disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther f orgit- 
f ul, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles exceptin' when we 
had company) I could see by the light of the fire that his mind 
was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he/ " Silly." 
I says to him, says I, "What ?" He says to me, says he, " We're 
all poor critters /" 

F. M, Whitsheb. 



TIM CRAKE'S PROPOSAL. 

O no, Mr. Crane, by no manner o' means, 't ain't a minnit tew 
soon for you to begin to talk about gittin' married agin. I am 
amazed you should be af eerd I'd think so. See — how long's Miss 
Crane been dead? Six months!— land o' Goshen! — why I've 
know'd a number of individdiwals get married in less time than 
that. There's Phil Bennett's widder t' I was a talkin' about jest 
now — she't was Louisy Perce — her husband hadent been dead but 
three months, you know. I don't think it looks well for a woman 
to be in such a hurry — but for a man it's a different thing — cir- 
cumstances alters cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you 
be, Mr. Crane, it's a tumble thing for your family to be without a 
head to superintend the domestic consarns and tend to the chil- 
dren — to say nothin' o' yerself, Mr. Crane. You dew need a 
companion, and no mistake. Six months ! Good grievous ! 
Why Squire Titus dident wait but six weeks arter he buried his 
fust wife afore he married his second. I thought there wa'n't no 
partickler need o' his hurryin' so, seein' his family was all grow'd 
up. Such a critter as he pickt out, tew ! 't was very onsuitable — 
but every man to his taste — I hain't no disposition to meddle 
with nobody's consarns. There's old farmer Dawson, tew — his 
pardner hain't been dead but ten months. To be sure he ain't 
married yet — but he would a ben long enough ago if somebody I 
know on 'd gim him any incurridgement. But tain't for me to 
speak o' that matter. He's a clever old critter and as rich as a Jew 
—but lawful sakes ! he's old enough to be my father. And there's 
Mr. Smith— Jubiter Smith— you know him, Mr. Crane— his wife 



132 PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. 

(she 'twas Aurory Pike) she died last summer, and he's ben squint- 
in' 'round among the wimmin ever since, and he may squint for 
all the good it'll dew him as far as I'm consarned — tho' Mr. Smith's 
a respectable man — quite young and hain't no family — very well 
off tew, and quite intellectible — but I tell ye what — I'm purty par- 
tickler. O, Mr. Crane! it's ten year come Jinniwary since I 
witnessed the expiration of my belovid companion! — an oncom- 
mon long time to wait, to be sure — but 't ain't easy to find any 
body to fill the place o' Hezekier Bedott. I think you're the most 
like husband of ary individdiwal I ever see, Mr. Cra#e. Six 
months ! murderation ! curus you should be af eard I'd think 'twas 
tew soon — why I've know'd — " 

Mr. Crane. — "Well widder — I've been thinking about taking 
another companion— and I thought I'd ask you — " 

Widow. — " O, Mr. Crane, egscuse my commotion — it's so onex- 
pected. Jes]hand me that are bottle o' camfire off the mantletry 
shelf — I'm ruther faint — dew put a little mite on my handkercher 
and hold it to my nuz. There— that'll dew — I'm obleeged tew ye 
now I'm ruther more composed — you may perceed, Mr. Crane." 

Mr. Crane. — "Well widder, I was agoing to ask you whether — 
whether—" 

Widow. — " Continner, Mr. Crane — dew — I know it's tumble 
embarrisin'. But when an individdiwal has reason to suppose his 
attachment 's reciperated, I don't see what need there is o' his 
bein' flustrated— tho' I must say it 's quite embarrasin' to me — 
pray continner." 

jj£ r ^ Q m — « Well then, I want to know if you're willing I should 
have Melissy ?" 

Widow.— "The dragon!" 

jf r# C. "I hain't said any thing to her about it yet — thought 

the proper way was to speak to the old woman first — " 

Widow. " Old woman, hey ! that's a purty name to call me! — 

amazin' perlite tew ! Want Melissy, hey ! Tribbleation ! grac- 
ious sakes alive ! well, I'll give it up now ! I always know'd you 
was a simpleton, Tim Crane, but I must confess I dident think 
you was quite so big a fool— want Melissy, dew ye ? If that don't 
beat all ! Why, you're old enough to be her father, and more tew 
—Melissy ain't only in her twenty-oneth year. What a reedicki- 
lous idee for a man o' your age ! as gray as a rat tew ! I wonder 
what this world is a comin' tew : 't is astonishin' what fools old 
widdiwers will make o' themselves ! Have Melissy ! Melissy ! " 



SELECTIONS. 133 



Mr. C. — " Why widder, you surprise me — I'd no idee of being 
treated in this way after you'd ben so polite to me, and made such 
a fuss over me and the girls." 

Widow.— "Shet yer head Tim Crane— nun o' yer sass to me. 
There's yer hat on that are table, and here's the door — and the 
sooner you put on one and march out o' t' other, the better it '11 
be for you. And I advise you afore you try to git married agin, 
to go out west and see 'f yer wife's cold — and arter ye are satis- 
fied on that pint, jest put a little lampblack on yer hair — 'twould 
add to your appearance ondoubtedly and be of sarvice tew you 
when you want to flourish round among the gals— and when ye've 
got yer hair fixt, jest splinter the spine o' yer back — 't wouldent 
hurt yer looks a mite — you'd be interely unresistable if you was a 
leetle grain straiter." 

Mr. C.—" Well, I never ! " 

Widow. — "Hold yer tongue — I tell ye there's yer hat and there's 
the door — be off with yerself, quick metre, or I'll give ye a hyst 
with the broomstick." 

Mr. C— "Gimmeni!" 

Widow, rising. — "Git out, I say — I ain't a gwine to stan here 
and be insulted under my own roof — and so — git along — and if 
ever you darken my door agin, or say a word to Melissy, it'll be 
the woss for you — that's all." 

Mr. C. — "TreemenjousT What a buster !" 

Widow. — "Go long — go 'long, you everlastin' old gum. I 
won't hear another word (stops her ears). I won't, I won't, I 
won't." [Exit Mr. Crane. 

F. M. Whitshee, Adapted. 



OUK GUIDE IN GENOA AND ROME. 

European guides know their story by heart, — the history of 
every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they show you. 
They know it and tell it as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt 
and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin 
over again. All their lives long, they are employed in showing 
strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admi- 
ration. 

Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose 
privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that 
throw them into perfect ecstacies of admiration! He gets so that 



134 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. 

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more, 
— we never admired anything, — we never showed any but impas- 
sible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest 
wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. 
We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of 
those people savage, at times, but we never lost our serenity. 

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, 
because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in senti- 
ment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there 
fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was 
full of animation, — full of impatience. He said : — 

"Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come! I show you ze letter 
writing by Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself! — write it wis 
his own hand! — come!" 

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive 
fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged doc- 
ument was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He 
danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger ■ — 

"What I tell you genteelmen! Is it not so? See! hand- writ- 
ing Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" 

We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined 
the document very'deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he 
said, without any show of interest, — 

" Ah, Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the 
party who wrote this ?" 

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!" 

Another deliberate examination. 

"Ah,— -did he write it himself, or— or how ?" 

"He write it himself !— Christopher Colombo! he's own hand- 
writing, write by himself !" 

Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — 

"Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old 
that could write better than that." 

"But zis is ze great Christo — " 

"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. 
Now you mus'nt think you can impose on us because we are 
strangers. We are not fools by a good deal. If you have got 
any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out ! — and 
if you haven't, drive on!" 

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up. but he 



SELECTIONS. 135 



made one more venture. He had something which he thought 
would overcome us. He said, — 

"Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me ! I show you beautiful, O, 
magnificent bust Christopher Colombo!— splendid, grand, magnif- 
icent!" 

He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was beautiful, 
and sprang back and struck an attitude : — 

"Ah, look, genteelmen! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher 
Colombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" 

The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occasions : 

"Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was?" 

" Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo!" 

" Christopher Colombo ! — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, 
what did lie do ?" 

"Discover America ! — discover America, O, ze devil !" 

"Discover America. No, — that statement will hardly wash. 
We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about 
it. Christopher Colombo, ■ — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ? 

"O, corpo di Baccho!— three hundred year!" 

"What did he die of?" 

" I do not know. I cannot tell. " 

" Small-pox, think,?" 

"I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." 

"Measles, likely?" 

"Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of some- 
things." 

" Parents living ?" 

"Im-posseeble!" 

" Ah,' — which is the bust and which is the pedestal ? ,? 

"Santa Marie! — zis ze bust! — zis ze pedestal ?" 

"Ah, I see, I see,— happy combination, — very happy combin- 
ation indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever 
on a bust ?" 

That joke was lost on the foreigner,— guides cannot master the 
subtleties of the American joke. 

We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. Yesterday 
we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful 
world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest 
sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. He 
had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the 
last, —a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, 



136 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some 
of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — 

" See, genteelmen ! — Mummy! Mummy!" 

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. 

4 'Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gen- 
tleman's name was ?" 

' ' Name ? — he got no name ! Mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy ! ' ' 

" Yes, yes. Born here ?" 

1 ' No. ' Gyptian mummy. " 

"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume?" 

"No ! — not Frenchman, not Roman! — born in Egypta !" 

"Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign 
locality, likely. Mummy — mummy. How calm he is, how self- 
possessed ! Is — ah ! — is he dead ?" 

" O sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year !" 

The doctor turned on him savagely: — 

"Here now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ! Play- 
ing us for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! 
Trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on us ! I've a 
notion to — to — . If you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him 
out ! — or we'll " mummy " you. 

We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. How- 
ever, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came 
to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavor- 
ed, as well as he could, to describe us so that the landlord would 
know which persons he meant. He finished with the casual re- 
mark that we were lunatics. The observation was so innocent 
and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to 
say. 

Make: Twain, Adapted. 



ORATION ON THE CRISIS. 

Ahum-m-m! Feller-citizens, — I have been called upon, this 
evenin', to appear before you ; that is I have been requested to 
appear on the scaffold this evenin', for the purpose of elucidatin' 
to you the all-absorbin' subjic which am now agitatin' the — the — 
certainly I have. Ahum-m-m ! But to return to our subjic. 

As I was about to remark previously beforehand, what's our 
country comin' to? That's what I'd like to know myself. Look 
at the great congregated circumflex of this glorious Union ; just 



SELECTION'S. 137 



look at it ! Does anybody see it ? Certainly, that's what's the 
matter. Ahum-m-m ! But to return to our subjic. 

Look at our great American eagle, the glorious emblem of our 
liberty ! Just look at me ! What are you going to do with that 
ere bird ? Look at 'im as he flies from the cloud-capped summick 
of the Licherdee mountains to the terrific abyss of the Goshwal- 
lachian avenue, an' flutters his feathers, and says, in the sweet 
language of Pharaoh, in his epistles to the Egyptians, " Root, 
hog, or die." That's what's the matter. Ahum-m-m! But to 
return to our subjic. 

Look at our — look at our — look at our — that's what /'d like to 
know. Look at our newspapers ; just look at 'em f Can't pick up 
one without reading something in it, — that's what's the matter. 
What did I see in a paper this morning? What did I see 
there ? Provisions has riz. What's the consequences ? Coffee 
and molasses had a fight. And what's the consequences agin ? 
Molasses got licked, and coffee had to seetle down on its own 
grounds. That's what's the matter, — or any other man. Ahum- 
m-m ! But to return to our subjic. 

Look at our soldiers ; just look at 'em ! Does anybody see ' em? 
Do they not march forth to battle, and— and get shot in the neck ? 
Certainly they do ; that's just what's the matter. Ahum-m-m ! 
But to return to our subjic. 

Look at our sailors ; look at 'em. Do they not — do they not t 
Certainly they do. Do they not sail out into the briny ocean, 
where the devourin' elephants open their jaws for em, and — and 
lay down in their warm hammocks and sleep ? Certainly they do, 
— or any other man. Ahum-m-m ! 

Look at our firemen; ah! those boys, just look at 'em! Do 
they not at the dead hour of the night, when the clock proclaims 
the hour of midnight, and when the barometer is forty-seven de- 
grees below Cicero, — do they not rush forth to the scene of con- 
flagration, and— and get into a row! Certainly they do; and 
that's just what's the matter with me, — or any other man. But to 
return to our subjic. 

Now, what does this great and glorious Constitooshin of this 
United Confederation of Pennsyltucky say ? What does it say ? 
Does not our Constitooshun say t Certainly it does. That's just 
what it says. What did Patrick Henry Jackson say ? Did he 
not say that each and every one should stand upon his own 

18 



138 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

ground ! and did he not lay his hand upon his heart, and say with 
a clear conscience that he was a paper doll, with a glass eye? 
Certainly he did, — or any other man. 



JESUS' SEAT. 

Far, far away o'er the deep blue sea 

Lived a man who was kind as kind could be. 

He loved little children, and spread every day 

A table from which none went empty away. 

Poor children came in from the alley and street, 

With rags on their backs, and no shoes on their feet ; 

Girls and boys, large and small, some naughty and rude, 

But John Falk loved them all and did them all good. 

And while they were eating, he often would tell 

Of the Lord Jesus Christ, who on earth did once dwell ; 

How he loved little children — each one of them there 

He was watching from heaven with tenderest care — 

And how happy and blessed would be the child's part 

Who would let that dear Savior come dwell in his heart. 

Each day when the children assembled to eat, 

He taught them to offer this grace for their meat : 

" Bless, Jesus, the food thou hast given us to-day, 

And come and sup with us, dear Jesus, we pray." 

But once, when the children had finished this prayer. 
One poor little fellow stood still by his chair 
For a moment, then ran to the closet where stood 
The bright cups of tin and the platters of wood. 
"Now what is the matter?" said Falk to the child. 
The little one looked in his kind face, and smiled : 
" We asked the Lord Jesus just now in our grace, 
To sup with us here, but we've given him no place. 
If he should come in, how sad it would be ! 
But I'll put him a stool here close beside me. " 

Then the boy, quite contented, sat down to his food ; 
He was hungry and tired, and his supper was good. 
But a few moments after, he heard at the door 
A knock low and timid — one knock, and no more. 
He started to open 't, hoping to meet 
The Lord Jesus Christ come to look for his seat ; 
But when it was open, he no one could see 



SELECTIONS. 189 



But a poor little child much poorer than he ! 
His face blue with hunger ; his garments so old, 
Were dripping with rain ; and he shivered with cold. 
"Come in !" cried the boy, in a tone of delight; 
"I suppose the Lord Christ could not come here to-night, 
Though we asked him to come and partake of our bread, 
So he's just sent you down to us here in his stead. 
The supper is good, and we'll each give you some, 
And tell the Lord Christ we are glad you have come. 

From that time, when the children assembled to eat, 
There was always one place called " the Lord Jesus' seat ; 
And the best that they had was placed there each day 
For one who was poorer and hungrier than they. 
And the Lord Jesus Christ, in reply to their grace, 
Sent always some person to sit in his place ; 
And sweet was the food that the Lord did provide 
For the stranger he sent them to eat at their side. 

Dear friends, who have heard this short story, you know 
The words that our Savior once spake when below : 
If we wish for his presence to hallow our bread, 
We must welcome the stranger he sends in his stead. 
"When we set out our feasts, this our motto must be, 
" As ye do to my poor, ye have done unto me !" 

Miss F. Eastwood. 



SCENE FROM HANDY ANDY. 

"Ride into town and see if there's a letter forme," said the 
squire one day to our hero. 

"Yis, sir." 

"You know where to go ? " 

"To the town, sir." 

" But do you know where to go in the town ? " 

"No, sir." 

" And why don't you ask, you stupid thief ? " 

"Sure, I'd find out, sir." 

"Didn't I often tell you what you're to do when you don't 
know?" 

"Yis, sir." 

" And why don't you ? " 

"I don't like to be throublesome, sir." 



140 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

" Confound you! " said the squire; though he could not help 
laughing at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance. "Well, 
continued he, " go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I 
suppose ? " 

"Yis, sir; where they sell gun-powdher." 

"You're right for once," said the squire ; for his majesty's post- 
master was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the 
aforesaid combustible. " Go, then, to the post-office, and ask for 
a letter for me. Remember, not gunpowder, but a letter." 

"Yis, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted 
away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the post- 
master, (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gim- 
lets, broadcloth and linen drapery,) Andy presented himself at the 
counter and said : 

"I want a letther, sir, if you plaze." 

"Who do you want it for?" said the post-master, in a tone 
which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of pri- 
vate life ; so Andy thought the coolest contempt he could throw 
upon the prying impertinence of the post-master was to repeat 
his question. 

" I want a letther, sir, if you plaze ! " 

"And who do you want it for ? " repeated the post-master. 

" What's that to you ? " said Andy. 

The post-master laughed at his simplicity, and told him he 
could not tell what letter to give him unless he told him the di- 
rection. 

" The directions I got was to get a letther here — that's the di- 
rections." 

"Who gave you those directions?" 

"The masther." 

"And who's your master ? " 

"What consarn is that o' yours ? " 

"Why, you stupid rascal, if you don't tell me his name, how 
can I give you a letter ? " 

" You could give it if you liked, but your'e fond of axin' im- 
pident questions, bekase you think I'm simple." 

"Go along out o' this! Your master must be as great a goose 
as yourself, to send such a messenger." 

"Bad luck to your impidence ! is it Squire Egan you dar to say 
goose to ? " 

"Oh, Squire Egan's your master, then?" 

" Yis; have you any thing to say agin it? " 



SELECTIONS. 141 



" Only that I never saw you before." 

4 ' Faith, then you'll never see me agin, if I have my own con- 
sult. " 

"I won't give you any letter for the squire, unless I know you're 
his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you ? " 

" Plenty," said Andy; "it's not every one is as ignorant as 
you." 

Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered 
the house, who vouched to the post-master that he might give 
Andy the squire's letter. " Have you one for me ? " 

" Yes, sir," said the post-master, producing one; "fourpence." 

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop 
with his letter. 

"Here's a letter for the squire," said the post-master; you've to 
pay me elevenpence postage." 

" What 'ud I pay elevenpence for ? " 

" For postage." 

"Saint Pathrick! Didn't I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther 
for fourpence this minnit, and a bigger letther than this? and now 
you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing! Do 
you think I'm a fool?" 

"No, but I'm sure of it," said the post-master. 

" Well, you're welkim to be sure, sure; but don't be delayin' 
me now ; here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the letter." 

" Go along, you stupid thief! " said the post-master, taking up 
the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap. 

While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged 
up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in 
the middle of the customers, and saying, "Will you gi' me the 
letther?" 

The squire in the mean-time was getting impatient for his re- 
turn, and, when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a 
letter for him. 

" There is, sir," said Andy. 

"Then give it to me." 

"I haven't it, sir." 

"What do you mean? " 

"He wouldn't give it to me, sir." 

" Who wouldn't give it to you? " 

" The owld chate beyant in the town — wanting to charge double 
for it." 



142 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

" Maybe it's a double letter. Why didn't you pay what he 
asked, sir ? " 

" Arrah, sir, why should I let you be chated ? It's not a double 
letter at all ; not above half the size o ? one Mr. Durf y got before 
my face for fourpence." 

" You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vaga- 
bond. Ride back for your life, you omadhound, and pay what- 
ever he asks, and get me the letter." 

" Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for 
fourpence apiece." 

" Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you ; and if you're 
longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horse-pond." 

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. 
When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the 
post-master was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel 
that lay before him on the counter ; at the same time many shop 
customers were waiting to be served. 

" I'm come for that letther," said Andy. 

" I'll attend to you by-and-by." 

"The masther's in a hurry." 

" Let him wait till his hurry's over." 

" He'll murther me if I'm not back soon." 

"I'm glad to hear it." 

While the post-master went on with such provoking answers to 
these appeals for dispatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters 
which lay on the counter ; so, while certain weighing of soap and 
tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of 
two letters from the heap ; having effected that, he waited pa- 
tiently enough till it was the great man's pleasure to give him the 
missive directed to his master. 

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and in triumph at his trick on 
the post-master, rattle along the road homeward as fast as the 
beast could carry him. 

He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with de- 
light, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner quite 
unaccountable to his master until he pulled forth his hand, which 
had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket, 
and, holding three letters over his head, while he said, "Look at 
that ! " he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the 
table before the squire, saying : 



SELECTIONS. 143 



"Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought 
your honor the worth o' your nioney, any how! " 

Samuel Lover. 



THE POLISH BOY. 

Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill, 

That like an arrow cleave the air, 
Causing the blood to creep and thrill 

With such sharp cadence of despair ? 
Once more they come ! as if a heart 

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 
And every string had voice apart 

To utter its peculiar woe ! 

Whence came they ! From yon temple, where 
An altar raised for private prayer, 

Now foiins the warrior's marble bed, 
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 

The dim funereal tapers threw 
A holy lustreVer his brow, 
And burnish with their rays of light 
The mass of curls that gather bright 

Above the haughty brow and eye 
Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 

What hand is that whose icy press 

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp. 
But meets no answering caress — 

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp ? 
As is the hand of her whose cry 

Rang wildly late upon the air, 
When the dead warrior met her eye, 

Outstretched upon the altar there. 

Now with white lips and broken moan 

She sinks beside the altar stone ; 

But hark ! the heavy tramp of feet, 

Is heard along the gloomy street, 

Nearer and nearer yet they come, 

With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 

They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread 

Their beauties by the path they tread, 



144 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands 
Rend brutally their blooming bands. 
Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
Around the holy temple creep. 
The gate is burst. A ruffian band 
Rush in and savagely demand, 
With brutal voice and oath profane, 
The startled boy for exile's chain. 

The mother sprang with gesture wild, 

And to her bosom snatched the child ; 

Then with pale cheek and flashing eye, 

Shouted with fearful energy, — 

"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread 

Too near the body of my dead ! 

Nor touch the living boy — I stand 

Between him and your lawless band ! 

No traitor he — But listen ! I 

Have cursed your master's tyranny ! 

I cheered my lord to join the band 

Of those who swore to free our land, 

Or fighting, die ; and when he pressed 

Me for the last time to his breast, 

I knew that soon his form would be 

Low as it is, or Poland free. 

He went and grappled with the foe, 

Laid many a haughty Russian low : 

But he is dead — the good — the brave — 

And I, his wife, am worse — a slave ! 

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 

With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 

And drag me to Siberia's wild 

To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 

" Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, 
Tearing the pale boy from her side ; 
And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
His victim to the temple door. 

" One moment !" shrieked the mother, " on 
Can land or gold redeem my son ? 
If so, I bend my Polish knee, 
And, Russia, ask a boon of thee. 



SELECTIONS. 145 



Take palaces, take lands, take all. 
But leave him free from Russian thrall. 
Take these," and her white arms and hands 
She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
And tore from braids of long black hair 
The gems that gleamed like star-light there : 
Unclasped the brilliant coronal 
And carcanet of orient pearl ; 
Her cross of blazing rubies last 
Down to the Russian's feet she cast. 



He stooped to seize the glittering store : 
Upspringing from the marble^floor, 
The mother with a cry of joy, 
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy ! 
But no — the Russian's iron grasp 
Again undid the mother's clasp. 
Forward she fell, with one long cry 
Of more than mother's agony. 

But the brave child is roused at length, 
And breaking from the Russian's hold. 
He stands, a giant in the strength 
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. 

Proudly he towers, his flashing eye, 

So blue and fiercely bright, 

Seems lighted from the eternal sky, 

So brilliant is its light. 

His curling lips and crimson cheeks 

Foretell the thought before he speaks. 

With a full voice of proud command 

He turns upon the wondering band. 

"Ye hold me not ! no, no, nor can : 
This hour has made*, the boy a man. 
The world shall witness that one soul 
Fears not to prove itself a Pole. 

I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, 
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire ; 
I Avept upon his marble brow — 
Yes, wept — I was a child ; but now 
My noble mother on her knee, 



146 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 

Has done the work of years for me. 

Although in this small tenement 

My soul is cramped — unbowed, unbent, 

I've still within me ample power 

To free myself this very hour. 

This dagger in my heart ! and then, 

Where is your boasted power, base men ?" 

He drew aside his broidered vest, 

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 

The jewelled haft of a poniard bright, 

Glittered a moment on the sight. 

" Ha ! start ye back? Fool ! coward ! knave ! 

Think ye my noble father's glave, 

Could drink the life blood of a slave ? 

The pearls that on the handle flame, 

Would blush to rubies in their shame. 

The blade would quiver in thy breast, 

Ashamed of such ignoble rest ! 

No ; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain, 

And fling him back a boy's disdain. ' 

A moment and the funeral light 
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright ; 
Another, and his young heart's blood 
Leaped to the floor a crimson flood. 
Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
And on the air his clear voice rang — 
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! 
The choice was death or slavery ; 
Up ! mother, up ! look on my face 
I only wait for thy embrace. 
One last, last word — a blessing, one, 
To prove thou knowest what I have done, 
No look ! No word I Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? 
Speak, mother, speak—lift up thy head. 
What, silent still? Then art thou dead! 
Great God, I thank thee ! Mother, I 
Rejoice with thee, and thus to die." 
Slowly he falls. The clustering hair 
Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare. 
One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
Lay on his mother's bosom, dead. 



